DILLINGHAM'S  AMERICAN  AUTHORS  LIBRARY,  No.  11, 

FEBRUARY,    1656.        ISSUED  MONTHLY.        *6  PER  YEAH. 


As  Made  by  Himself. 


NEW    YORK: 
COPYRIGHT,  1895,  BY 

G.     IV.    D  tiling  ham,    Publisher, 

MDCCCXCV. 
[All  Rights  Reserved.] 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTEB.  PAGr. 

I.  Stopping  a  Gap      ...      7 

II.  A  Chance  Acquaintance         .    13 

III.  Kate 24 

IV.  The  Boy  and  the  Man    .        .    34 
V.  A  Paradoxical  Diversion        .    42 

VI.  Mollie  Hayden        ...    50 

VII.  Introspection  .        .        .        .61 

VIII.  Doctor  Tom     ....     70 

IX.  A  Daily  Round        ...    84 

X.  Two  Women  and  a  Man  .        .    89 

XI.  The  Unexpected      ...    96 

XII.  Just  Dyspepsia       .        .        .109 

XIII.  Hot  and  Thirsty  Days    .        .  119 

XIV.  Helen 123 

XV.  Gorton  Bowie          .        .        .143 

XVI.  The  Relief  of  Confession        .  153 

XVII.  The  Fool  .        .        .       .        .161 

XVIII.  An  Interruption      .        .        .168 

XIX.  Night  and  Day        .        .        .176 

XX.  The  Last  Confession                 181 


CONFESSIONS  OF  A  FOOL. 


CHAPTER  I. 

STOPPING  A  GAP. 

The  fact  that  the  Widow  was  going  to 
be  there  was  enough  for  me — although  1 
well  understood  that  I  was  asked  on  the 
trip  for  something  else  than  to  be  with  the 
Widow.  I  do  not  fool  myself  on  this  point. 

Faxon  would  take  care  of  the  Widow.  I 
was  to  take  care  of  the  Widow's  sister. 

Well,  Faxon  owns  the  yacht  and  may  ar- 
range these  little  things  as  he  pleases.  He 


Confessions  of  a  Fool. 


wants  to  own  the  Widow,  and  some  one 
must  be  on  hand  to  absorb  the  sister — for 
the  Widow  never  goes  far  afield  without 
her  sister. 

The  sister  attachment  lends  respectabil- 
ity and  dullness  to  onr  sojourn. 

Still,  if  I  didn't  fill  the  gap,  Faxon 
would  simply  invite  some  other  fellow. 
After  all,  if  I  don't  get  the  Widow,  there 
are  pat£s — and  Faxon's  steward  does 
make  a  sublime  pate — and  no  end  of  cham- 
pagne. Besides,  I  have  a  suspicion  that 
the  Widow  would  prefer  my  company  to 
Faxon's.  That  is  something — only  the 
yacht  is  Faxon's,  and  the  Widow  must 
needs  go  with  it. 

It's  hard  work,  though,  not  to  violate 
the  confidence  of  my  host.  How  will  T  re- 
call the  sail  two  weeks  ago! 


Stopping  a  Gap. 


When  the  Widow  came  back  down  the 
companion-way  after  dinner  that  evening, 
ostensibly  to  get  her  wrap,  and  finding  me 
waiting  at  the  foot  of  the  ladder — for  her 
—asked  me  to  fetch  the  wrap  from  her 
state-room,  and  then  let  me  lay  it  over  her 
shoulders,  and,  somehow,  allowed  her  face 
to  come  so  near  mine  that  I  got  the  fra- 
grance from  the  poudre  on  her  cheek- 
well,  nothing  but  the  most  absurd  strength 
of  purpose  prevented  me  from  holding 
on  to  her  for  the  rest  of  the  run  home  and 
letting  Faxon  indulge  himself  with  the  sis- 
ter and  the  sulks.  As  it  was,  I'm  afraid  I 
went  so  far  that  there  would  have  been  no 
more  yachting  trips  for  me  if  the  Widow 
had  not  subsequently  got  the  sister  to  par- 
ticularly request  my  company  on  board! 


10  Confessions  of  a  Fool. 


I  know,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  that  I  made 
a  mess  of  it  yesterday.  The  Widow  was 
particularly  fascinating.  She  has  reduced 
her  mourning  from  the  broad  and  somber 
border  that  distinguished  her  yachting 
suit  earlier  in  the  season,  to  a  narrow  edg- 
ing of  black  about  collar,  cuffs  and  the 
hem  of  her  skirt;  and  while  thus  modified, 
the  outfit  is  not  so  conspicuously  fetching, 
it  pleasantly  suggests  a  transition  to  a 
more  properly  approachable  stage. 

We  had  had  usual  weather  since  leaving 
the  anchorage  in  the  morning  until  after 
sundown  in  the  evening.  Then  the  breeze 
freshened  remarkably  and  we  took  in  top- 
sails, and,  by  nine  o'clock,  had  a  reef  in  the 
mainsail.  Faxon  and  I  were  helping  the 
men  at  the  running  gear,  and  Faxon 
slipped  and  turned  his  ankle.  Think  he 


Stopping  a  Gap.  11 


took  too  many  cocktails  before  dinner — his 
steward  mixes  a  terrific  cocktail.  At  the 
solicitation  of  the  Widow  he  went  below 
and  turned  in  on  top  of  one  of  the  saloon 
transoms.  I  have  reason  to  believe  that  he 
wanted  the  Widow  to  come  down  and  nurse 
him,  but  she  shuddered  and  said  she  could 
never  bear  to  witness  suffering  and  pain- 
but  that  her  sister  was  a  splendid  nurse. 
So  the  sister  rubbed  Faxon's  ankle  with 
liniment  all  the  way  home. 

The  Widow  and  I  sat  under  the  weather 
rail  in  the  gloom  and  got  along  nicely.  I 
wrapped  her  about  with  Faxon's  big  uni- 
form overcoat,  and,  as  she  insisted  I  must 
be  cold,  I  shared  the  overcoat  with  her. 

It  was  all  very  pleasant  until  Faxon 
went  off  to  sleep  and  the  Widow's  sister 
came  on  deck. 


12  Confessions  of  a  Fool. 

I'm  afraid  that  when  the  club  cruise 
starts  I  shall  not  be  a  guest  on  Faxon's 
yacht;  but  I  wouldn't  have  missed  that 
evening's  experience  for  a  dozen  cruises. 

Besides,  the  Widow  assures  me  by  note 
this  morning  that  unless  there  is  another 
gentleman  in  the  party  she  shall  decliue 
to  go  on  the  cruise. 

That  means  me — I'm  sure  of  it. 

She  has  a  nice  way  of  putting  things 
without  really  committing  herself. 


CHAPTER  H. 

A    CHANCE    ACQUAINTANCE. 

It's  odd  how  a  fellow  with,  brains  in  his 
•head  will  so  often  consider  it  desirable 
amusement  to  get  drunk. 

Practical  experience,  covering  a  some- 
what lengthy  period,  coupled  with  a  consci- 
entious consideration  devoted  to  the  sub- 
ject during  many  despondent  hours,  leads 
me  to  the  conclusion  that  the  first  drink  is 
responsible  for  it  all.  While  the  first  drink 
is  rarely  taken  with  a  view  to  getting 
drunk,  it  too  often  leads  directly,  and  by 
rapid  stages,  to  that  regrettable  end. 

Accordingly,  I  argue  that  avoidance  of 

13 


14  Confessions  of  a  Foot. 


the  first  drink  makes  temperance  an  easy 
virtue  to  practice. 

In  other  words,  for  me  at  leant,  it  is  as 
easy  to  be  a  Prohibitionist  as  to  be  a  tem- 
perance man. 

A  cocktail  before  breakfast,  before  lunch, 
before  dinner,  or  a  social  glass  between 
meals — the  result  is  all  the  same  with  me. 
Other  drinks  are  pretty  sure  to  follow  with 
an  ever-decreasing  interval  between.  I  used 
to  refrain  from  taking  anythingbefi)re  even- 
ing, but  had  to  abandon  this  apparently  sal- 
utary practice — since  it  usually  compelled 
me  to  sit  up  all  night  before  getting  in 
enough  to  go  to  bed  on.  Then  I  would  rise 
with  difficulty  on  the  morning  following, 
and,  of  necessity,  take  frequent  bracers  all 
day  to  do  business  on.  The  practice  robbed 
me  of  sleep  and  unfitted  me  for  work  as 


A  Chance  Acquaintance.  15 


well.  Xow  I  drink  as  early  in  the  day  as 
may  be  desired  by  any  of  my  many  friends 
— not  even  waiting  for  the  hour  when  the 
snn  gets  over  the  foreyard,  as  is  the  rule,  I 
believe,  rigidly  adhered  to  among  naval 
men,  who  have  an  international  fame  for 
scientific  intemperance.  The  result  is,  I  re- 
tire early  on  my  otiinn  cum  dig.,  and  enjoy 
a  good  night's  rest,  awakening  on  the  mor- 
row refreshed  and  ready  for  my  day's  toil. 

Some  days,  to  be  sure,  this  practice  raises 
the  deuce  with  my  day's  toil,  but  there  is 
no  remedy  except  strict  prohibition — and 
that  is  only  to  be  considered  during  hours 
of  extreme  remorse. 

I  am  moved  to  write  these  philosophic 
lines  because  I  sat  up  quite  late  last  even- 
ing, and  as  nearly  as  I  can  recall  myself,  as 
I  was,  I  drank  too  much. 


16  Confessions  of  a  Fool. 


If  I  hadn't  drunk  too  muck  I  would  not 
have  dropped  into  the  dance  hall  where  I 
found  myself  shortly  before  midnight. 

And  if  I  hadn't  dropped  into  the  dance 
hall  I  should  not  have  met — let  me  see,  I 
believe  she  told  me  her  name  was  Helen. 

The  dance  was  all  right,  and  Helen,  or 
any  other  young  woman,  had  a  perfect  right 
to  be  there.  It  was  the  festival  of  some 
society,  or  military  company,  or  something 
of  that  sort.  The  young  women  were  there 
to  dance  and  have  a  good  time  in  a  perfect- 
ly respectable,  if  not  altogether  high-toned, 
way.  The  young  men,  however,  were  there 
chiefly  to  empty  a  punch-bowl  two  or  three 
times  over  and  smoke  cigarettes.  Of 
course  they  danced,,  but  the  intermissions 
were  longer  than  the  dances,  because  the 
young  men,  and  not  the  young  women, 


A  Chance  Acquaintance.  17 


were  running  the  affair.  Then  there  were 
a  lot  of  fellows  and  men  about  town  who 
dropped  in  late  in  the  evening,  and  most  of 
them  had  done  a  goodly  amount  of  drink- 
ing outside  the  hall — as  I  had. 

I  was  impressed  with  Helen.  She  was 
exceedingly  pretty,  although  when  I  try  to 
picture  her  I  can  only  see  a  pair  of  very 
large  and  very  soft  eyes.  I  cannot  recall 
their  color.  I  like  to  think  of  her  as  having 
an  artistic  «temperament — judging  from 
my  recollection  of  her  eyes. 

Just  about  as  I  had  come  to  regard  her 
with  interest  she  disappeared  in  the  cloak- 
room. When  she  came  out  she  had  on  her 
outer  garments,  apparently  prepared  to 
leave  the  dance. 

A  young  fellow  met  her  at  the  door  of 
the  cloak  room.  He  was  the  kind  of  a 


18  Confessions  of  a  Fool. 


young  fellow  whose  ideas  of  being  a  man 
are  gained  by  standing  up  against  a  bar. 

He  bad  had  as  much  of  the  punch  as  he 
could  reasonably  carry,  and  was  evidently 
a  little  proud  of  it.  Indeed,  he  was  dis- 
posed to  show  himself  a  reckless  man  of 
the  world  in  the  presence  of  Helen. 

"You  told  me,  Jack,"  I  heard  Helen  say, 
"that  you  would  take  me  home  at  mid- 
night." 

"Oh,  pshaw!"  remonstrated  the  young 
fellow;  "the  fun's  just  begun  and  Minnie 
doesn't  want  to  go  yet." 

"I  can't  help  it,"  pleaded  Helen.  "Yon 
know  mother  would  be  awful  angry  if  I 
should  stay  until  the  ball  ended.  I'm  go- 
ing home,  and  if  you  won't  go  with  mo  T 
shall  go  alone.  You  and  Minnie  may  stay," 

The  young  fellow  muttered  something: 


A  Chance  Acquaintance.  19 


that  sounded  disagreeable,  and  then  he 
turned  on  his  heel  and  sauntered  across 
the  floor. 

The  girl  stood  irresolute  a  moment. 
Then  she  made  her  way  to  the  main  exit 
and  passed  out  of  the  hall. 

I  couldn't  help  following  her.  I  liked  to 
fancy  myself  as  a  sort  of  unknown  pro- 
tector of  Helen's  footsteps  for  the  immedi- 
ate future. 

The  sidewalk  in  the  immediate  vicinity 
•of  the  doorway  was  ornamented  with  a 
group  t>f  young  chaps  who  were. refreshing 
their  brows  in  the  cool  air  and  puffing  cig- 
arettes. When  Helen  had  run  the  gantlet 
of  their  searching  eyes  she  became  the  sub- 
ject of  a  discussion  which  resulted  in  one  of 
the  group  leaving  his  fellows  and  walking 
leisurely  after  her. 


20  Confessions  of  a  Fool. 

I  sauntered  after  the  young  fellow. 

Helen  increased  her  steps,  the  young  fel- 
low increased  his,  and  I  kept  the  pace. 

Finally  the  young  fellow  overtook  Helen 
and  accosted  her.  I  slowed  down  to  watch 
developments,  and  was  rather  pleased  to 
observe  that  Helen  did  not  take  kindly  to 
the  company  of  the  young  fellow.  After  a 
little  she  stopped  short  and  I  heard  her  ex- 
press herself  to  the  effect  that  she  would 
stand  there  for  the  rest  of  the  night  if  the 
young  fellow  didn't  go  about  his  business. 
The  recollection  of  this  impresses  me  that 
Helen  has  a  will  as  well  as  being  artistic. 
The  young  fellow  was  expostulating  when 
I  overtook  them,  and  I  grabbed  him  by  the 
collar  and  gave  him  a  gentle  twist  and  a 
shove  that  landed  him  in  the  gutter. 

The  girl  looked  up  in  my  face  an  instant 


A.  Chance  Acquaintance.  21 


as  if  in  doubt  how  to  accept  my  appearance 
on  the  scene. 

"I  will  go  with  you  as  far  as  may  be  nec- 
essary to  save  you  from  annoyance,"  I  re- 
marked, at  the  same  time  regretting  that 
the  situation  had  not  found  me  perfectly 
free  from  the  effects  of  the  drinking  that 
had  occupied  me  during  the  earlier  even- 
ing hours. 

Helen  looked  straight  up  into  my  face 
with  the  expression  of  a  girl  who  was  per- 
fectly able  to  take  care  of  herself,  but  at 
the  same  time  would  be  glad  to  be  relieved 
of  the  responsibility  if  she  could  accom- 
plish it  judiciously.  The  inspection  seemed 
to  satisfy  her.  She  was  certainly  not  over 
twenty-one  or  twenty-two,  and  I  am  thirty- 
three;  and  very  likely  the  discrepancy  in 
our  years  gave  her  confidence,  for  she 


22  Confessions  of  a  Fool. 


turned  and  walked  along  with  me,  without, 
however,  accepting  my  proffered  arm. 

I  don't  recall  much  that  we  talked  about 
on  the  way,  although  once  she  had  placed 
her  confidence  in  me  so  far  as  to  let  me 
walk  with  her,  she  began  to  chat  freely  and 
about  all  sorts  of  things  that  are  interest- 
ing to  a  girl  of  her  years — dances  and  fel- 
lows and  immature  ideas  of  life,  and  the 
circus,  and  the  work  at  which  she  was  em- 
ployed, and  gossip  about  people  that  I 
never  knew  or  expect  to  know.  She  ex- 
plained that  the  "Jack"  who  had  declined 
to  take  her  home  was  her  brother,  and  that 
he  was  keeping  company  with  another 
young  woman,  for  whose  sake  he  wanted  to 
remain  at  the  ball. 

I  do  remember  that  when  I  left  Helen  on 
the  steps  of  a  little  cottage  a  long  way  from 


A  Chance  Acquaintance.  23 

the  scene  of  the  ball,  she  extended  her  hand 
and,  looking  me  frankly  in  the  face  with 
her  big  eyes,  thanked  me  for  being  so  kind 
to  her. 

She  was  not  an  uncommon  sort  of  a  girl, 
perhaps,  but  somehow  I  wished  I  might 
hold  her  hand  for  a  week. 


CHAPTER  III. 

KATE. 

"Are  you  sure  you  don't  neglect  your 
business  through  being  too  much  of  a 
good  fellow,  Dick?" 

My  sister  put  that  interesting  question 
to  me  the  other  evening.  My  sister  is  Mrs. 
Edward  Marberry.  She  is  a  charming 
woman,  although  I  never  admired  her 
taste  in  marrying  Edward  Marberry.  I 
don't  know  how  better  I  may  describe 
Marberry  than  to  remark  that,  in  all  his 
life,  nobody  ever  referred  to  him  as  "Ned" 
Marberry.  I  know  no  other  man  of  my 
acquaintance  bv  the  Christian  name  of  Ed- 

24 


Kate.  25 

ward  whom  somebody — some  one  body,  at 
least — doesn't  call  "Ned."  I  never  could 
contemplate  with  pleasure  so  anomalous 
a  thing,  any  more  than  I  could  the  charac- 
ter of  a  man  named  Charles,  who  would 
never  be  called  "Charlie";  or  what  kind 
of  a  fellow  it  would  be  who  would  not  be 
known  as  "Tom"  if  his  name  was  Thomas. 
Edward  Marberry  goes  to  bed  every 
night  at  ten  o'clock,  and  rises  every  morn- 
ing at  seven  o'clock.  He  is  down  street 
to  business  by  8:30,  and  hasn't  eaten  a 
dinner  or  supper  out  of  his  house  since 
he  was  married — excepting  on  occasions 
when  his  college  society  holds  its  annual 
reunion,  when,  to  my  perennial  surprise, 
he  is  always  chosen  to  preside,  and  is  es- 
teemed the  brightest  fellow  in  the  com- 
pany. I  understand  he  delivered  the  ad- 


Confessions  of  a  Fool. 


dress  to  undergraduates  on  his  class  day 
at  the  university,  and  from  old  associates 
have  heard  it  said  that  in  his  youth  he  was 
a  tearing  good  fellow.  I  can't  conceive  of 
it,  however.  He  has  backslid  terribly. 

And  yet  I  must  acknowledge  that.  Mar- 
berry  always  dresses  like  a  gentleman, 
and  I'll  wager  the  clothes  on  his  back'~are 
paid  for — with  the  cash  discount.  He  cer- 
tainly has  provided  a  charming  home  for 
my  sister,  who,  despite  the  fact  that,  as  I 
remember  her  when  she  was  a  "young 
lady"  and  I  a  small  boy,  she  was  a  particu- 
larly lively  girl,  fond  of  society  and  all 
that,  she  seems  to  be  not  only  content, 
but  actually  happy  in  her  humdrum  mar- 
ried existence.  I  believe  he  takes  her  to 
everything  that  is  first-class  at  the  the- 
atres, and  she  drives  a  good  horse  in  an 


Kate.  27 

unostentatious  sort  of  hitch-up,  and  gives 
afternoon  teas,  which  her  husband  attends. 
I  can't  explain  in  detail  why  I  think  Mar- 
berry  and  she  should  not  be  happy;  but 
if  theirs  is  the  right  kind  of  a  way  to  se- 
cure happiness  in  life,  then  my  methods 
ought  not  to  secure  it,  for  they  are  dia- 
metrically opposite  to  Marberry's. 

And  yet,  I'll  bet  no  man  on  earth  leads 
a  Jollier  life  than  I  do. 

But  Kate — my  sister — takes  me  to  task 
occasionally — which  means  every  time  I 
run  in  to  eat  or  loaf.  She  thinks  I 
am  wasting  my  career,  whatever  that  may 
l^e.  I  tell  her  the  only  thing  I  waste  is 
money,  and  there  is  plenty  of -that  in  the 
world,  if  you  can  find  a  way  to  get  hold 
of  it  honestly — and  I  have  usually  secured 
my  share  without  too  much  work. 


28  Confessions  of  a  Fool. 

"You  know,  Dick,"  she  said  on  this  par- 
ticular evening,  "I  have  promised  you 
never  to  refer  again  to  your  greatest  er- 
ror— to  never  recall  to  you  your  cruelty. 
The  one  thing  you  have  done,  which,  as  a 
woman,  is  a  horror  to  me,  I  have  ceased 
to  speak  to  you  about,  but  you  must  let 
me  appeal  to  your  good  sense  to  take  care 
of  yourself,  however  careless  you  may  be 
of  others.  You  are  my  brother,  Dick;  I 
would  have  you  manly  and  upright,  and 
I  hope  you  are,  as  the  world  outside  looks 
at  you.  But,  whether  you  are  so  regarded 
or  not,  I  want  you  to  take  care  of  your- 
self." 

"In  other  words,  Kate,"  I  interrupted, 
grimly,  "you  don't  want  me  to  make  a  fool 
of  myself." 

"I  don't  mean  that  exactly,"  returned 


Kate.  29 

this  sweet  woman.  "I  don't  suppose  you 
will  ever  do  that — or  at  least  nobody  will 
know  it,  because  you  are  bright  and  smart. 
But  what  I  am  afraid  of  is,  you  will  wreck 
yourself.  You  are  too  easy.  You  know 
you  are,  dear.  It  seems  to  me  as  if  you 
would  never  stop  being  a  boy.  Everybody 
speaks  of  you  as  a  'good  fellow/  but  I  am 
not  sure  that  the  good  fellows  are  the  kind 
that  make  successes  of  themselves.  And, 
moreover,  I  don't  know  as  it  is  always 
a  long  step  from  being  what  men  call  a 
good  fellow  to  being  what  heart  and  con- 
science would  recognize  as  a  very  bad  fel- 
low." 

"Oh,  Kate!"  I  expostulated.  "I  wouldn't 
talk  like  that.  I  never  harmed  anybody 
but  myself." 

"We  won't  discuss  that,"  returned  my 


30  'Confessions  of  a  Fool. 

sister,  calmly,  "because  you  know  we  dif- 
fer on  that  point.  I  feel  that  you  have 
harmed  one  other  person,  and  harmed  her 
grievously.  Now,  don't  get  up  to  go ;  I  don't 
mean  to  pursue  that  subject.  Only  this, 
you  cannot  well  harm  yourself  without 
harming  some  one  else,  a  little  bit  at  least. 
Nobody  is  independent  of  others  in  this 
world.  And  if  you  could,  you  have  no 
business  to  harm  yourself.  It  is  your  bus- 
iness to  take  care  of  yourself.  To  secure  a 
good  name  and  an  honorable  position — 
especially  when  God  has  given  you  talents 
enough  to  do  it." 

"I  suppose  you  think  I'll  fill  a  drunk- 
ard's grave,  or  kill  somebody,  or  rob  a 
bank,"  I  uttered,  with  an  attempt  at  flip- 
pancy. 

"OH,  Dick,  you  nmsn't  laugh  at  me  wKen 


Kate.  si 

I  talk  to  you.  Take  me  a  little  bit  seri- 
ously for  your  own  sake.  You  are  too  good- 
hearted  to  be  vicious,  too  bright  to  inten- 
tionally destroy  your  reputation  or  your- 
self, and,  of  course,  you  are  honest.  I 
don't  propose  to  insult  you.  But  you  are 
careless  and  reckless,  and  you  don't  care 
enough  for  yourself.  You  like  a  good  time 
and  good  company,  and  you  like  them  all 
the  time.  Xow,  there  are  some  serious 
things  in  life  to  be  attended  to,  and  some 
serious  hours  to  be  passed  and  some  seri- 
ous duties  to  be  performed,  never  mind 
how  easy  your  pathway  of  life  may  seem 
to  be.  You  may,  perhaps,  get  through  life 
without  violating  the  liking  of  men  and  of 
women,  and  yet  without  securing  a  bit  of 
their  respect  and  esteem.  And  if  you 
haven't  that,  you  may  depend  upon  it, 


32  Confessions  of  a  Foot. 

brother,  you  will  suffer  your  own  self  some 
time — 'suffer  keenly,  however  happy  a  front 
you  may  present  to  the  world." 

"Well,  well,  Kate,"  I  cried,  "what  a 
splendid  preacher  you  would  make!" 

"Maybe  so,"  said  Kate,  thoughtfully.  "I 
don't  think  much  else  is  necessary  for 
preaching  if  you  have  sincerity.  That  is 
about  all  there  is  worth  having,  it  seems 
to  me.  You  may  fool  others,  but  you  can- 
not fool  yourself,  Dick.  That  is  the  way 
Edward  puts  it — it  is  not  original  with 
me.  And  I  hope  you  are  not  trying  to  fool 
yourself,  brother." 

My  dear  Kate!  I  rise  from  the  great 
easy  chair  and  cross  the  bit  of  space  be- 
tween us  to  her  side.  I  take  both  her  hands 
in  mine,  and  she,  too,  rises,  and  I  kiss  her. 

How  sweet  she  is,  with  her  soft,  dark 


Kate.  33 

hair  evenly  parted  and  brought  down  on 
either  side  of  her  forehead,  like  a  Madon- 
na. I  think  it  is  of  a  Madonna  she  re- 
minds me;  my  art  education  is  very  lim- 
ited. I  am  proud  of  my  sister,  though, 
and  I  love  her. 


GHAPTEE  IV. 

THE  BOY  AND  THE  MAN. 

Well,  I've  seen  Helen  again. 

She  evidently  regards  me  in  the  light  of 
a  hero. 

I  used  to  regard  myself  that  way.  But 
it  has  been  many  years  since  I  or-any  one 
else  has.  It's  rather  pleasant  to  talk  and 
walk  with  Helen  under  the  circumstances. 
To  be  sure,  she  does  most  of  the  talking.  A 
young  girl  is  about  the  biggest  chatterer 
on  earth. 

To  talk  with  Helen  carries  me  back  to 
the  younger  days — the  days  when  a  fellow 
is  really  more  of  a  man  than  he  ever  is  in 

34 


The  Boy  and  the  Man.  35 

his  life,  I  think,  although  he  doesn't  know 
it,  but  yearns  for  the  time  to  come  when 
he  will  have  acquired  more  smoothness  of 
physique  and  can  lay  claim  to  experiences. 
He  would  cover  the  fresh  color  in  his 
cheeks  with  a  beard,  and  would  even  like 
to  have  a  gray  hair  or  two  in  the  beard. 
Proud  as  he  is  of  his  health  and  his 
strength,  he  would  prefer  the  suggestion  of 
a  paunch  to  his  flat  stomach,  and  envies 
not  a  little  the  slight  stoop  of  the  shoul- 
ders which  lends  to  that  gray-mustached 
man  he  sees  on  the  street  a  something  that 
indicates  the  man-of-the-world,  the  chap 
who  has  suffered  as  well  as  enjoyed. 

All  this  the  boy  would  be  to  the  girl  he 
is  fond  of.  He  does  not  want  to  have  her 
regard  him  too  much  as  a  boy.  And  he 
fools  himself  with  the  idea  that  he  is  a 


36  Confessions  of  a  Fool. 

man  of  the  world  after  all,  and  that  she 
thinks  so.  Hasten  the  years!  Hurry  up  the 
experiences!  I  want  to  be  older! 

Poor  fool  of  a  boy!  Don't  you  remem- 
ber the  occasions  when  you  dropped  your 
absurd  mask?  Don't  you  remember  the 
walk  down  the  country  road,  when  you 
turned  a  handspring  over  the  five-barred 
gate,  just  to  show  off  to  her  what  a  lithe 
young  fellow  you  were?  Don't  you  re- 
member teaching  her  to  swim,  and  how 
she  remarked  on  the  big  muscles  of  your 
arms  which  swelled  as  you  lifted  her  on 
your  shoulder? 

And  you  remember  and  smile,  because  of 
the  pain  it  gave  you,  that  night  when  you 
undertook  to  tell  her  that  you  loved  her, 
and  the  fine  words  assembled  from  a  dozen 
summer  novels  went  out  of  your  head  be- 


The  Boy  and  the  Man.  37 

fore  her  swimming  eyes  looking  up  into 
yours.  And  at  the  supreme  moment,  when 
you  were  to  have  been  so  manly  in  your 
devotion,  you  were  a  blundering  boy! 

You  are,  indeed,  older  now.  The  fine 
.words  you  couldn't  say  that  night  you 
could  easily  speak  now — exactly  as  the 
summer  novelist  writes  them.  You  have 
had  one  or  two  experiences  since  then,  and 
if  you  had  that  love  scene  to  do  over  again, 
you  would  do  it  with  neatness  and  de- 
spatch; and,  after  it  was  over,  you  would 
not  have  to  feel  afraid  lest  she  thought 
you  nothing  but  a  boy  for  making  such  a 
mess  of  it,  or  kicking  yourself  because,  in 
the  moment's  mad  joy,  when  she  had  fallen 
into  your  arms,  you  had  shut  your  eyes 
and  kissed  the  back  of  her  neck,  instead 
of  her  waiting  lips. 


38  Confessions  of  a  Foot. 

You  recall  that  distinguished-looking 
man  with  the  cameo-like  face,  smooth 
shaven  always,  the  calm,  steel-gray  eyes, 
the  silken  hair,  with  a  few  streaks  of  gray 
in  it,  always  immaculately  dressed,  strolling 
on  the  hotel  piazza,  while  you  were  knock- 
ing about  in  a  flannel  shirt.  Somehow  that 
man  had  a  peculiar  attractiveness  for  her 
and  for  most  of  the  young  women  about 
the  hotel.  The  truth  to  tell,  he  was  your 
ideal,  too.  Some  day  you  would  see  the 
world  and  grow  to  be  like  him.  But  now, 
in  self-defense,  you  scorned  him.  What 
could  the  girls  see  in  that  "old  man"  that 
they  must  all  flock  about  him  at  every  op- 
portunity? A  lithe  young  fellow  like  you 
could  knock  him  down  with  a  straight  left- 
hander easily.  Thank  Heaven,  you  were 
young  and  had  health  and  strength!  Nev- 


The  Boy  and  the  Man. 


ertheless  you  got  out  of  your  neglige  for 
dinner  so  long  as  he  stayed  at  the  hotel. 

Youth  is  no  more  sincere  than  age.  In- 
deed, youth  knows  not  the  value  of 
sincerity.  Age  does,  even  if  it  does  not 
practice  it.  And  some  day  you  may  grow  old 
enough  to  realize,  as  Kate  urges  upon  me, 
that  there  is  not  much  else  worth  cherish- 
ing beside  sincerity.  The  earlier  you  have 
learned  that,  the  better  for  you. 

And  now  I  am  nearly  of  the  age  that, 
when  I  was  eighteen,  I  looked  forward-to. 
I  am  of  the  age  when  it  is  easy  to  talk  with 
a  woman  over  twenty-five,and  embarrassing- 
ly delightful  and  reminiscence-producing  to 
be  alone  with  a  schoolgirl.  I  can  exchange 
flatteries  and  fall  in  love  without  much 
difficulty.  And  I  know  that  the  best  and 
truest  love  a  man  ever  feels  is  when  he  is 


40  Confessions  of  a  Fool. 

a  "boy"  and  is  fond  of  a  "girl."  It  may  be 
love  without  reason  and  may  not  stand  the 
test  of  marriage,  but  the  boy  is  never  to 
know  again  anything  half  so  delectable. 
And  it  is  a  delight  for  the  man  to  be 
taken  back  to  the  boy-days,  as  the  walk 
and  the  talk  with  Helen  take  me  back. 

You  have  set  me  to  thinking  of  all  this, 
Helen.  You,  with  your  sweet  chatter,  talk- 
ing to  me  as  if  you  thought  it  your  duty 
to  entertain  me,  and,  being  unsophisticat- 
ed (though  you  think  you  are  not),  you 
have  an  idea  that  what  interests  you  must 
interest  me  and  every  one  else.  Your  eyes 
are  bright,  your  voice  is  pleasant  to  hear, 
and  it  is  a  delight  to  listen  to  you  and  to 
look  at  you.  I  wish  I  were  a  boy  again. 
I  haven't  the  heart  to  pay  you  compli- 
ments, and  I  don't  know  what  else  to  talk 


The  Boy  and  the  Man.  41 

about  to  you.  It  isn't  very  necessary  for 
me  to  say  anything  at  all,  for  you  have  a 
big  fund  of  things  to  talk  about,  just  as 
another  sweet  little  woman  and  I  used 
to  have  in  common,  until  we  began  to 
make  love  to  one  another.  And  then  we 
had  that  to  talk  about,  and  that  was 
enough.  She  was  a  high-bred  woman,  and 
you,  Helen,  are  a  girl  that  works  for  your 
living.  Perhaps  you  are  high-bred,  too. 
You  certainly  are  fairly  educated,  Helen,  as 
rich  and  poor  may  be  in  our  land,  and  you 
are  bright  and  smart.  I  like  you.  I  think 
Kate,  my  sister,  might  like  you.  And  the 
Widow  would  be  jealous  of  you. 

I  would  as  lief  the  Widow  would  know 
I  like  to  talk  and  walk  with  you,  Helen. 

I  am  not  so  sure  that  I  should  like  to  tell 
Kate  about  you. 


CHAPTEE  V. 

A  PARADOXICAL  DIVERSION. 

It's  odd  how  a  fellow  will  be  proud  of  the 
fact  that  he  has  lost  a  pile  of  money  game- 
ly. Any  one  may  boast  of  his  winnings, 
but  real  sporting  blood  is  evidenced  only 
by  the  complacency — even  satisfaction— 
with  which  you  are  able  to  face  your  los- 
ings. 

For  example,  I  pretended  to  the  same 
hilarity  when  I  dropped  my  last  available 
dollar  on  the  last  event  at  the  track  to-day 
as  I  used  to  feel  when,  as  a  youngster  at 
college,  I  thought  it  smart  to  "go  broke" 
at  a  silly  roulette  wheel  or  to  stake  my  last 

42 


A  Paradoxical  Diversion.  43 

cent  on  a  bluff  at  poker  that  I  was  sure 
was  going  to  be  called. 

It  has  been  a  great  week.  Wonderful, 
the  excitement  of  exchanging  a  roll  of 
greenbacks  for  a  vari-colored  ticket;  then 
promenading  the  paddock  puffing  a  strong 
cigar,  with  the  indescribable  self -conscious- 
ness of  playing  a  goodly  stake — outwardly 
calm,  inwardly — confess  it — 'burning  up 
for  forty-five  minutes  waiting  for  the  event 
to  be  started!  Zip!  In  forty-five  seconds  the 
short  furlongs  are  covered,  and  you  are  at 
liberty  to  joke  with  your  friends  about  the 
evaporation  of  another  fifty.  The  degree 
of  complacency  marks  the  drops  of  real 
sporting  blood  in  your  veins.  It  is  so  nice 
to  be  known  as  a  real  sport,  and  the  only 
test  is  to  lose. 

Your  nightcap — of  coure  it  is  whiskey, 


44  Confessions  of  a  Fool. 

the  only  liquor  on  earth  for  a  nightcap 
until  you  enter  upon  the  brandy  period- 
sets  your  brain  a-going,  when  you  would 
have  thought  you  had  drunk  enough  during 
the  evening  to  put  you  into  a  sow's  slumber. 
And  you  may  lie  on  your  bed,  your  eyes  star- 
ing wide  open  into  the  darkness,  and 
think  of  how  much  drudgery  it  took  to  en- 
able you  to  indulge  in  the  delight  of  throw- 
ing away  that  fat  roll  of  greenbacks! 
Thank  God,  you  are  not  such  a  damn  fool 
as  Faxon,  who  lit  his  cigar  with  a  crisp 
certificate  just  before  the  party  broke  up. 
You  didn't  have  a  bill  left  to  burn. 

And  your  debts,  too — that  roll  of  bills 
might  have  taken  some  of  them  off  your 
conscience — for  you  have  a  conscience  and 
are  ashamed  yet  to  face  the  man  to  whom 
you  owe  money. 


A  Paradoxical  Diversion.  45 

A  pistol  might  be  handy  at  this  time! 

But  no — don't  take  yourself  too  seriously. 
You  are  a  fool,  that's  all,  and  so  long  as 
most  people  don't  know  it,  you  can  afford 
to  laugh  at  yourself. 

Only,  remember,  some  day  people  will 
begin  to  find  it  out!  And  when  they  do, 
you  will  discover  that  yon  are  likely  to  be 
regarded  a  knave  as  well.  You'll  have  to 
stop,  old  man,  if  you  don't  want  to  face 
that. 

Now  your  eyelids  will  close  at  last.  The 
lightning-like  effect  of  the  nightcap  is 
working  off.  Your  brain  is  quieting  down. 
You  will  hold  a  calmer,  if  no  better,  opin- 
ion of  yourself  in  the  morning.  There's 
plenty  of  chance  yet  to  straighten  yourself 
out  before  your  friends  discover  what  a 
sham  you  are. 


46  Confessions  of  a  Fool. 

"I  observe,"  remarked  the  Widow,  as  I 
joined  her  in  the  grand  stand,  "that  you 
have  a  new  and  very  pretty  acquaintance." 

"To  whom  do  you  refer?" 

"Dear  me!  how  sly  of  you!  I  don't  know 
her  name — but  she  is  young  and  pretty, 
and  as  I  have  seen  you  on  two  successive 
days  on  the  street  with  her  I'm  afraid  that 
I  shall  have  less  of  your  company  in  the 
future." 

"You  got  along  well  enough  without  my 
company  on  the  cruise,"  I  remarked,  vi- 
ciously. 

"Oh,  no,  dear,  I  did  not.  You  see,  I  am 
frank  with  you.  I  admit  that,  pleasant  as 
the  cruise  was,  I  should  have  enjoyed  it 
far  better  with  you  on  board.  You  know  I 
like  your  company,  or  I  wouldn't  have  ac- 
cepted so  much  of  it.  It  isn't  pleasant  to 


A  Paradoxical  Diversion.  47 

be  dropped  by  one's  old  friends — a  woman 
likes  flattery  too  well  for  that,  you  know." 

"I  don't  know  whether  you  are  laughing 
at  me  or  not." 

"Then  your  perceptions  are  lacking  in 
their  accustomed  brilliancy.  Of  course,  I 
am  laughing  at  you.  You  don't  imagine  for  a 
moment  that  I  am  going  to  cry  over  you? 
Go  ahead,  make  some  little  creature  like 
that  black-haired  young  girl  fall  in  love 
with  you.  It  will  be  easy  enough,  I'm  sure. 
Any  man  can  make  almost  any  woman 
think  she's  in  love  with  him  if  he  goes 
about  it  right — providing,  always,  that  he 
is  fairly  prepossessing  and  has  decent  man- 
ners. A  male  flirt  is  an  abomination,  of 
course,  but  it  takes  my  sex  a  long  while  to 
recognize  the  flirts  if  they  are  only  kind  to 
them." 


48  Confessions  of  a  Fool. 

"You  are  inclined  to  be  mischievous,  to- 
day," I  venture  to  remark.  "Can't  a  fellow 
be  seen  on  the  street  with  a  woman  with- 
out being  accused  of  trying  to  flirt  with 
her? — or,  worse  yet,  of  trying  to  make  love 
to  her?" 

"You  can't — not  two  days  in  succession," 
remarked  the  Widow,  with  a  disagreeable 
laugh. 

I  shut  up.  The  horses  are  off.  Our 
glasses  are  on  them.  It's  a  steeplechase, 
and,  if  I  had  any  money  upon  it,  it  would 
be  exciting.  Fortunately,  one  of  the  riders 
is  thrown,  and  a  little  interest  is  accord- 
ingly aroused.  I  forget  a  good  many  other 
things  as  I  watch  the  trackmen  pick  the 
little  jockey  up.  There  is  a  prolonged 
cheer.  Somebody's  horse  has  won.  I  have 
no  money  on  the  event  and  so  watch  the 


rA  Paradoxical  Diversion:  49 

inanimate  little  body,  in  the  yellow  shirt 
being  borne  across  the  track  to  the  stables. 
A  small  part  of  the  crowd  of  thousands 
move  over  in  that  direction.  A  whisper 
runs  through  the  crowd  that  a  jockey  has 
been  badly  hurt — killed,  perhaps. 

"How  exasperating!"  says  a  harsh  voice 
in  my  ear.  It  is  the  Widow  speaking. 

"What's  the  matter  now?" 

"I  had  a  ticket  on  that  horse.  He  was 
sure  to  win,  but  of  course  that  stupid 
jockey  couldn't  stay  on  his  back!" 


CHAPTER  VI. 

MOLLIE  HAYDEN. 

"Dear  Richard,"  niy  sister  wrote — she  us- 
ally  writes  "Richard,"  instead  of  "Dick." 
Indeed,  except  when  talking  to  me  earnest- 
ly about  myself,  and  affectionately,  she  in- 
variably addresses  me  as  "Richard."  It's  a 
delicate  way  she  has  of  indicating  her  re- 
spect for  me,  coupled,  I  always  feel,  with 
the  suggestion  that  I  respect  myself — that 
I  grow  up  to  "Richard." 

"Dear  Richard — Come  over  to  dinner 
with  us  Wednesday  evening.  Miss  Hay- 
den,  a  cousin  of  Mr.  Marberry's,  and  her 
mother  are  to  be  our  guests  for  a  week  on 

50 


MoUic  Haydcn.  51 

their  return  home  from  the  Pier.  You  will 
have  to  help  me  entertain  them.  I  know  I 
may  depend  upon  you." 

Depend  upon  me !  Well,  I  should  say  so ! 
Pm  accustomed  to  being  "depended  upon." 
Didn't  do  a  stroke  of  work  all  summer  be- 
cause so  many  persons  depended  upon  me! 
And  the  winter  has  started  in  before  the 
autumn  is  half  gone,  with  more  engage- 
ments than  even  I  feel  prepared  to  tackle. 
The  club,  the  lodge,  the  dancing  crowd— 
I  don't  dare  contemplate  how  many  com- 
mittees Pm  on  to  do  this  and  to  do  that 
and  to  get  up  this  and  to  get  up  that — and 
all  fun  and  a  good  time.  The  devil  only 
knows  where  Pm  coming  out.  I  didn't  earn 
enough  money  last  Spring  to  even  carry 
me  through  the  summer,  and  Pve  got  to 
buckle  down  to  work  sooner  or  later  or 


52  Confessions  of  a  Fool. 

Dun's  man  will  be  crowding  me  again  as 
he  did  three  years  ago,  when  I  went  to 
Europe  for  a  month  and  spent  a  year's 
time  and  no  end  of  money  on  that  yellow- 
headed  singer  in  Berlin. 

But  Kate,  you  shall  not  be  neglected 
while  I  have  an  hour  or  a  penny  to  spare. 
That  husband  of  yours  is  about  as  much 
help  for  an  entertainer  as  a  cigar-store  In- 
dian. Your  brother  is  worth  something  in 
this  world,  after  all,  isn't  he,  Kate?  Once 
in  a  while,  as  a  convenience — to  be  "de- 
pended upon!" 

*  *  *  * 

Well,  I've  had  a  surprise  party! 

Mollie  Hayden  is  a  resplendent  beauty. 
I  suspected  that,  because  Kate  didn't  say  a 
word  about  her  in  her  letter.  Ned  Mar- 
berry  has  broken  me  up  completely,  too. 


Moll  ic  Haydcn.  53 

We  enjoyed  a  very  pleasant  evening 
Wednesday.  I  was  greatly  impressed  with 
Marberry's  cousin.  She  had  met  a  lot  of 
people  at  the  Pier  that  I  had  known  in  past 
seasons,  and  she  didn't  give  any  sign  that 
they  had  told  her  too  much  about  me — or, 
indeed,  had  even  mentioned  me  for  the 
matter  of  that.  She  is  a  thorough  young 
woman  of  the  world.  Not  like  the  Widow. 
The  Widow  is  tough.  But  just  a  well- 
poised,  handsome,  wholesome  girl,  who 
may  have  a  love  affair  to  her  account,  per- 
haps, and  knows  how  to  be  perfectly  free 
without  being  frivolous  or  silly. 

Let  me  look  back  over  the  week.  It's 
been  mighty  jolly — only  that  confounded 
Marberry  violated  all  my  confidence  in  him 
as  a  dyed-in-the-wool  chump.  Shouldn't 
wonder  if  he  might  be  a  good  fellow  if  he 


54  Confessions  of  a  Fool. 

wanted  to  be.  During  the  evening, 
Wednesday,  I  invited  everybody  to  take  in 
the  theatre  with  me  Thursday  night,  and 
then  we  had  a  little  supper,  and  I'm  blessed 
if  Marberry  didn't  indulge  himself  in  the 
champagne.  On  Friday,  Marberry  took  us 
all  out  for  an  old-fashioned  roughing — a 
trip  up-country  in  his  trap — I  didn't  know 
he  owned  a  trap  before.  Mollie  Hayden 
and  I  sat  together  on  the  back  seat  and  I 
had  a  distinctly  jolly  time.  On  Saturday 
Kate  gave  a  complimentary  tea  to  her 
guests,  which  would  have  been  extraordi- 
narily dull  if  Marberry  hadn't  rigged  up  a 
little  spread  in  the  smoking  room  for  us 
fellows  after  the  affair  was  over.  Said  he 
didn't  get  any  satisfaction  from  sweet 
crackers  and  bonbons  himself,  and  knew 
we  fellows  must  be  hungry.  He  actually 


Mollic  II  ay  den.  55 

produced  a  couple  of  bottles  of  Burgundy 
that  he  admitted  had  been  lying  in  his  cel- 
lar ever  since  he  was  married.  That  shows 
his  slowness.  I  wouldn't  wonder  but 
Marberry  was  quite  a  boy  after  all  in  his 
younger  days — before  he  backslid. 

Sunday  we  all  went  to  church — twice, 
morning  and  evening  service.  Don't  re- 
member when  I  have  been  to  church  be- 
fore. But  I  would  go  anywhere  with  a  girl 
like  Mollie  Hayden. 

Monday  afternoon  I  hired  a  Victoria  and 
took  the  folks  about  town  and  out  to  the 
Park.  Marberry  couldn't  go — business. 
Was  glad  of  it  for  that  matter.  Would 
just  as  lief  as  not  be  the  only  fellow  in  a 
pnrty  that  included  Mollie  Hayden. 

In  the  evening  we  had  dinner  en  famille, 
with  a  little  music.  Miss  Hayden  plays  a 


56  Confessions  of  a  Fool. 

viola  exquisitely,  and  she  sings,  too — has 
a  pure  contralto  voice.  I  know  I  would 
give  a  good  deal  to  have  her  voice  around 
the  house  all  the  time.  I  remarked  as  much 
to  Kate  the  other  day  and  she  reminded 
me  gently  that  as  sweet  a  voice  as  Mollie 
Hayden's  had  once  been  mine  to  listen  to. 

Tuesday  night  we  saw  a  bit  of  light  opera 
and  after  returning  home  Kate  made  a 
rarebit  and  Marberry  actually  had  some 
Bass  to  go  with  it.  I  believe  Marberry 
would  make  quite  a  decent  sort  of  a  chap 
if  he  would  let  himself  loose. 

The  Haydens  departed  Wednesday  fore- 
noon. I  saw  them  off  on  the  train — Kate 
and  I.  Wehad  driven  down  in  the  democrat, 
and  I  drove  back  home  with  Kate,  stopping 
on  the  way  for  her  to  do  some  shopping. 
Kate  didn't  speak  to  me  during  the  ride. 


Moll  ic  II  ay  den.  57 

When  we  reached  the  house  she  invited 
me  to  come  in  and  I  went  in.  I  followed 
her  into  the  drawing  room.  She  stepped  in 
front  of  the  mirror,  unconsciously  regard- 
ing her  handsome  face  as  she  deliberately 
drew  off  her  gloves  from  as  snug  a  pair  of 
hands  as  there  is  in  the  world. 

She  turned  to  me  after  a  moment. 

"Dick,"  she  said,  looking  me  straight  in 
the  eye,  "I  didn't  tell  the  Hay  dens  much 
about  you." 

"Thank  you,"  I  returned,  inclined  to  feel 
amused,  but  estopped  from  expressing  the 
inclination  by  my  sister's  perfectly  serious 
face. 

"They  are  very  nice  people,"  pursued  my 
sister,  her  eyes  dropping  a  moment  as  she 
neatly  folded  her  gloves  and  laid  them  on 
the  mantel  under  the  mirror. 


68  Confessions  of  a  Fool. 

"Miss  Hayden  is  certainly  charming,"  I 
ventured  to  remark. 

"Decidedly  so,"  said  my  sister.  "They 
are  very  well  to  do,  the  family  connections 
are  very  nice,  and '' 

My  sister  paused  and,  facing  the  mirror, 
began  to  draw  the  pins  out  of  her  hat. 

"Kate,"  I  said,  after  watching  her  a  mo- 
ment, "I  may  have  to  go  West  on  a  bus- 
iness trip  shortly.  Wouldn't  it  be  perfect- 
ly proper  to  renew  my  acquaintance  with 
the  Haydens  by  stopping  over  a  few  days?" 

"They  would  he  very  glad  to  see  you,  I 
am  sure,"  said  my  sister.  "They  both  feel, 
as  I  do,  under  great  obligations  to  you  for 
paying  them  so  much  attention  during 
their  stay  with  us,  and  I  am  confident  they 
would  be  glad  to  reciprocate  your  kind- 
ness." 


Moltic  Haydcn. 


Kate  had  by  this  time  got  her  hat  un- 
pinned, and  I  stepped  to  her  to  assist  in 
removing  her  light  jacket. 

"Will  you  stop  to  luncheon,  Richard?" 
she  asked,  as  she  turned  herself  out  of  the 
jacket  and  faced  me. 

"Thank  you,  no,"  I  responded.  "I'll  run 
along.  I  want  to  tell  you,  though,  little 
girl,  that  I  am  distinctly  grateful  to  you 
for  letting  me  in  on  such  a  nice  week  of  it 
as  I  have  had." 

"The  obligation  is  ours,  Richard,"  said 
my  sister,  as  she  preceded  me  to  the  hall. 
"I  don't  know  what  we  would  have  done 
without  you.  You  helped  so  much  to  give 
them  a  good  time." 

She  paused  with  one  hand  on  the  door- 
knob, and  turning  to  me  said  this: 

"Brother,  if  you  were  only  as  good  and 


60  Confessions  of  a  Foot. 

sensible  a  man  as  most  people  think  yon 
are — and  as  you  really  are,   down   deep, 
where  you  never  have  looked  at  yourself— 
any  woman  might  well  be  proud  of  you." 

Even  Miss  Hayden?  I  wondered  if  that 
was  in  my  sister's  thought. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

INTROSPECTION. 

Somewhere  I  remember  reading  that 
every  man  has  three  characters,  what  he  is, 
what  .he  things  he  is,  and  what  he  wants 
other  people  to  think  he  is — or  something 
like  that,  for  my  quotations  are  never  ac- 
curate. 

By  subdivision  it  seems  to  me  one  may 
find  himself  playing  a  score  and  more  dif- 
ferent parts  in  the  course  of  a  day.  If  I 
were  an  author  I  think  I  could  write  a  book 
book,  all  the  characters  in  which  should 
be  drawn  from  myself — and  there  would 
be  plenty  of  them  and  so  various  as  to  be 

61 


62  Confessions  of  a  Fool. 

in  no  danger  of  recognition  as  a  part  and 
parcel  of  a  single  real  man. 

And  which  would  be  the  real  character? 
Which  would  e  the  real  "I"? — I  would 
give  a  small  fortune  to  find  out,  to  meet 
him  face  to  face'  and  to  be  able  to  say  with 
confidence,  '*Now  I  know  myself."  If  the 
real  "I"  was  a  good  sort  of  a  chap  that 
would  be  desirable.  But  if  not — well,  it 
would  be  a  satisfaction  to  know  it  and  give 
up  at  once  the  struggle  of  fighting  it. 

To  little  Helen  I  am  a  hero — and,  lo !  with 
her  I  feel  myself  heroic!  I  act  the  hero 
very  well,  quite  unconsciously,  for  this,  au- 
dience. 

tfo  the  Widow  I  am  a  .man  about  town,  a 
fellow  of  the  world.  A  little  brighter  and 
smarter  than  most  of  the  moths  that  singe 
themselves  at  her  flame,  and  so  a  trifle 


Introspection. 


more  desirable  for  her  company.  And  I  feel 
that  I  am  just  a  bit  brighter  and  sharper 
than  the  majority  of  fellows. 

To  Faxon — well,  I  suppose  to  ,him  I  am 
chiefly  a  nuisance,  and  I  present  as  dis- 
agreeable a  part  as  I  can  play  when  in  his 
company — especially  if  the  Widow  is  there, 
and  she  usually  is. 

To  Gorton  Bowie — well,  Gorton  is  a 
mighty  good  sort  of  a  chap,  and  he  a~ 
ciates  that  there  is  plenty  of  good  in  rnr 
We've  been  partners  for  three  years,  now, 
ever  since  the  old  man  died,  and  I  made  a 
stock  company  of  the  business  and  made 
Bowie  treasurer  of  it.  Gorton  and  I  get 
along  very  well.  Probably  each  of  us  sup- 
plies something  the  other  lacks.  I  know  he 
supplies  a  good  deal  that  I  lack — he  at- 
tends to  business  and  regards  me,  as  he  has 


64  Confessions  of  a  Fool. 

so  often  told  me,  as  his  kind  benefactor 
who  had  given  him  a  start  in  life  and  done 
for  him  more  than  he  could  ever  repay. 
When  Gorton  talks  that  way  I  feel  as  phil- 
anthropic as  a  whole  missionary  society, 
and  have  no  further  twinges  of  conscience 
for  letting  him  do  all  the  work,  and  find  an 
occasional  bit  of  extra  money  for  me  to  take 
a  flyer  in  stocks  with. 

Ned  Marberry,  of  course,  regards  me  as 
an  irreclaimable  fool — and,  strangely 
enough,  I  feel  exactly  that  way  when  in 
his  company. 

But  Kate — ah,  dear  Kate — you  are  more 
charitable.  You  think  I  am  foolish,  but 
hardly  a  fool.  You  look  upon  me  as  a  man 
with  an  unfortunate  nature  in  that,  with 
ample  abilities,  there  is  something  that 
prevents  them  from  working  out  my  ob- 


Introspection.  65 


vious  destiny — which  is  to  amount  to  some- 
thing. You  upbraid  me  at  one  moment 
and  the  next  you  would  go  through  flood 
and  fire  for  me.  You  have  always  had  an 
ideal  of  me,  Kate,  and  it  frets  you  because 
I  fail  to  reach  the  ideal — indeed,  if  it  conies 
to  a  crisis  you  will  stand  with  me  against 
the  world  and  avow  that  I  am,  after  all, 
all  that  you  want  me  to  be.  With  you, 
Kate,  I  am  a  careless,  but  repentant,  boy, 
whose  life  is  always  all  before  him. 

Then  there's  the  Doctor — my  dear  old 
yellow-haired  Tom!  I  don't  think  you  ever 
inspire  me  to  play  a  part,  dear  boy.  We 
found  each  other  out  pretty  thoroughly  in 
the  old  college  days,  and  if  there  are  any 
moments  in  the  year  when  I  am  neither 
posing  nor  imagining,  nor  feeling,  any- 
thing but  just  what  I  am  at  those  mo* 


66  Confessions  of  a  Fool. 

merits,  it  is  when  I  am  with  you.  You  know 
me  better  than  my  own  sister — possibly 
better  than  I  know  myself.  And  it  is  en- 
couraging that  you  seem  to  think  as  much 
of  me  to-day  as  you  ever  did. 

And  then  there's  Mollie  Hayden — I'd 
give  a  world  or  two  to  know  what  you 
think  of  me.  I  was  always  at  jny  best  with 
you — and  my  best  is  far  from  bad,  not  to 
sacrifice  fact  in  the  interest  of  unnecessary 
modesty.  Mollie,  I  think  if  I  were  always 
with  you  I  should  be  as  fine  a  fellow  as 
there  is  on  earth,  and  you  would  never  re- 
gret- 
Hold  on,  old  man,  you  are  going  too 
fast!  You  thought  that  once  before.  Some 
one  else  accepted  you  at  that  valuation. 
The  result  was  what? 

Never  mind,  what.    I  am  a  coward  when 


Introspection.  (ft 


I  think  of  it.  I  feel  as  if  I  were  utterly  de- 
praved, as  thoroughly  bad  as  a  man  can  be, 
a  beast  and  a  brute — and  yet,  that  too  is 
but  one  of  the  many  characters  all  evolved 
from  the  same  uneasy  soul. 

What  is  a  fellow  going  to  do  about  it? 
Which  one  of  himself  will  he  settle  down 
with  and  live  with?  How  is  he  ever  to 
know  which  one  of  him  he  really  is — or,  at 
least,  which  one  comes  the  closest  to  meet- 
ing the  average  of  them  all?  Are  all  men 
built  this  way,  I  wonder?  Where  am  I  go- 
ing to  land  when  all  is  said  and  done?  Will 
people  speak  of  me  as  a  ibrute  or  a  jolly 
good  fellow — or  would  they  speak  of  me  at 
all? 

I  suppose  environment  and  circumstance 
shape  the  course.  Born  with  the  latent 
seed  of  a  dozen  different  kinds  of  fellows 


68  Confessions  of  a  Fool. 

within  one,  environment  and  circumstance 
gradually  would  mould  firmly  one  nature 
and  eliminate  the  rest  until  at  a  sufficient 
maturity  the  man  comes  forth  rounded  and 
finished  and  standing  for  something. 

But.  as  for  me,  nearly  half  the  allotted 
years  are  gone,  and  I  know  not  myself.  I 
will  not  allow  that  I  am  a  wicked  man,  and 
yet  I  have  done  some  wicked  things.  I  will 
not  allow  that  I  am  a  stupid  man,  and  yet 
I  have  often  acted  stupidly  enough.  I  can- 
not claim  that  I  am  either  good  or  smarf, 
and  yet  from  time  to  time  my  little  world 
has  credited  me  with  a  plenty  of  good  and 
smart  things.  I  have  a  tender  heart  and 
my  nature  is  sympathetic;  yet  I  have  done 
one  woman  a  cruel  wrong  and  cannot  be 
sure  that  I  might  not  repeat  the  crime 
should  opportunity  arise.  I  would  sacrifice 


Introspection.  69 


my  life  for  a  friend  like  the  Doctor  or  Kate 
—and  yet  my  friendship  is  likely  to  do  any 
of  my  friends  more  harm  than  good  before 
they  are  done  with  it.  That  was  the  ex- 
perience of  her  who  was  my  best  friend. 

I  suppose  the  trouble  is  my  life  has 
lacked  attrition.  It  has  always  been  too 
easy.  It  has  permitted  the  birth  of  new 
characters  without  cultivating,  or  finishing 
off,  any  one  of  the  old  original  ones,  that 
were  perhaps  born  with  me  or  were 
evolved  in  the  early  days.  And  now,  here 
I  am — a  jumble  of  irreconcilable  natures, 
•cast  into  parts  enough  for  a  five-act  melo- 
drama— and  not  knowing  whether  Fm  to 
be  most  effective  as  the  hero  or  the  heavy 
villain,  or  as  the  low  comedian! 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

DOCTOR   TOM. 

Keal  life  is  different  from  story  lif^  in 
that  there  doesn't  seem  to  be  any  con- 
sistent plot  to  the  former. 

Eeal  life  is  a  series  of  incidents  usually 
with  only  the  merest  association  between 
them.  The  culmination  of  life's  story 
seems  usually  to  be  independent  of  most 
of  the  incidents.  In  story  life  all  the  in- 
cidents must  bear  with  some  closeness  on 
the  result,  else  the  story  is  not  a  well-told 
story. 

And  yet  Dr.  Tom  maintains  that  even  in 
real  life  not  the  smallest  episode,  incident 
or  thought  but  that  influences  its  story. 

70 


Doctor  Tom. 


And  the  story  of  real  life,  so  the  dear  old 
man  argues,  is  the  development  of  a  char- 
acter. 

That  is  all  there  is  to  life — so  the  Doc. 
talks — to  develop  character.  The  working 
of  it  out  for  yourself  and  the  watching  of 
it  work  out  in  other  persons  are,  the  Doctor 
claims  to  think,  of  more  absorbing  inter- 
est than  any  romance  ever  written  or  any 
play  ever  acted. 

The  subject  came  up  over  a  pipe  and  a 
glass  of  exceedingly  tasty  Kirschewasser 
in  the  Doctor's  quarters,  where,  on  my 
way  to  my  own  rooms,  I  had  dropped  in, 
noting  that  the  midnight  incandescent  was 
burning  in  the  little  back  office. 

I  had  been  to  the  opera  with  Helen.  It 
was  a  dangerous  experiment,  because  the 
chances  were  good  for  acquaintances  being 


72  Confessions  of  a  Fool. 

there  who  might  be  curious  as  to  the  iden- 
tity of  Helen.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  they 
were  there,  plenty  of  them.  The  Widow, 
from  two  rows  in  front,  faced  square  about 
to  beam  on  me,  and  she  leveled  her  lorg- 
nette on  Helen.  Gorton  Bowie  was  there, 
too,  with  Mrs.  Bowie,  and  I  observed  that 
they  discussed  Helen.  Gorton  is  a  good, 
faithful  fellow,  as  he  ought  to  be,  for  I 
have  set  him  up  in  the  world.  But  his 
wife,  whom  he  married  a  few  months  ago, 
doesn't  regard  me  highly,  and~  apparently 
thinks  neither  my  business  nor  any  of  the 
rest  of  the  earth  could  be  run  without  Gor- 
ton, and  that  the  universe  is  indebted  ito 
him  accordingly  for  being  alive. 

I  didn't  care  anything  about  the  boys. 
In  fact,  I  was  quite  glad  to  have  themTlook 
at  Helen,  for  she  is  about  as  pretty  a  girl 


Doctor  Tom.  73 


as  a  fellow  could  be  seen  with.  I  suppose 
I'll  catch  it  a  trifle  warmly  when  I  go  round 
to  the  club,  but  I  can  stand  it. 

I  was  telling  the  Doctor  about  this  ex- 
perience and  about  Helen,  and  had  re- 
marked how  easily  a  little  gossip  could  be 
created  among  one's  friends,  by  appearing 
in  public  with  a  new  girl;  and,  on  the 
other  hand,  of  what  infinitesimal  import- 
ance most  of  our  actions  were,  anyway. 

"Everything  spoken  by  the  characters  in 
a  book  is  important,  and  has  an  influence 
on  the  outcome  of  the  story,"  I  remarked. 
"In  real  life,  however,  our  characters  chat- 
ter away  from  dawn  to  dark  and  it  bears 
on  nothing.  We  do  things  of  importance 
enough  to  make  interesting  chapters  for  a 
novel,  but  they  are  all  disconnected,  have 
no  associated  purpose,  bear  upon  nothing, 


74  Confessions  of  a  Fool. 

and  are  forgotten — with  no  possible  in- 
fluence upon  the  story." 

Then  the  Doctor,  pushing  his  hand 
through  his  yellow  hair,  enunciated  the 
theory  about  the  only  plot  in  life's  story 
being  the  development  of  a  character,  and 
every  trifle  must  inevitably  bear  upon  that. 
I  had  nothing  to  say  to  that.  When  the 
Doctor  gets  serious  about  a  thing  I  never 
have  anything  to  say. 

But  I  was  surprised  and  not  a  little 
startled  when  the  Doctor,  after  a  few  puffs 
of  his  pipe,  turned  on  me  with  this: 

"Mind  you,  Dick,  I  don't  admit  that  the 
plot  which  we  demand  in  our  book  is  al- 
together absent  from  real  life.  For  ex- 
ample, yon  take  this  young  girl,  who  is 
far  removed  from  your  circle  of  acquaint- 
ances, and  bring  her  into  the  full  light  of 


Doctor  Tom. 


their  curious  gaze  in  a  public  place  and 
create  your  idle,  unimportant  gossip;  what 
is  going  to  come  of  it  all?  Isn't  there  a 
chance  that  a  story  may  after  all  be  op- 
ened to  be  read — aye,  to  the  last  chapter?" 
''Nonsense,  Doctor,"  I  returned.  "In  a 
book,  I  suppose  you  'mean,  I  should  at  this 
moment  properly  be  the  hero  of  a  romance, 
with  Helen  as  the  heroine.  Our  destinies 
should  work  out  from  our  first  public  ap- 
pearance to  the  chancel  rail  or  to  a  tragic 
disappointment  for  one  or  the  other  of  our 
parts.  And  all  would  live  happily,  or 
otherwise,  ever  after.  Now,  of  course,  there 
is  to  be  nothing  of  the  sort.  That  is  the 
point  I  make.  With  all  the  talk  and  gossip 
among  my  interested  friends  that  I  Tiave 
created  to-night,  this  chapter  in  the  real 
life  story  will  amount  to  nothing.  Another 


76  Confessions  of  a  Fool. 


chapter  will  be  begun  and  finished  on  an 
entirely  irrelevant  topic.  I  will  acknoAvl- 
edge  that  what  yon  call  the  romance  "of  the 
development  of  a  fellow's  character  may 
be  progressing  in  proper  sequences,  but  as 
for  the  kind  of  plot  in  the  books,  why, 
Helen  is  only  an  inconsequential  incident." 

The  Doctor  looked  at  me  sharply  for  a 
moment;  then  he  said  very  slowly: 

"My  dear  Dick,  the  girl  you  call  Helen 
may  have  no  place  in  your  story;  but  did 
you  ever  stop  to  consider  that  you  your- 
self may  be  making  some  mighty  import- 
ant chapters  in  her  romance?  For  in- 
stance, I  might  ask  what  you  are  going  to 
do  with  this  Helen?" 

I  glared  at  the  Doctor  a  moment,  half 
inclined  to  be  angry  witl;  him.  But  his 
lips  curled  into  a  smile  at  the  corners,  and 


Doctor  Tom.  77 


his  mustache  twitched  mischievously.  It 
is  impossible  ever  to  get  put  out  with  the 
Doctor. 

"What  am  I  going  to  do  with  her!"  I 
echoed.  "Why,  Tom,  I  wouldn't  harm  the 
girl.  Besides,  she  is  quite  well  able  to  tak? 
care  of  herself,  I  assure  you.  I  like  her 
and  she  likes  me.  We  enjoy  being  togeth- 
er, and  I  propose  to  have  her  enjoy  herself, 
and  to  enjoy  myself  with  her." 

"Precisely.     A  perfectly  simple  exposi- 
tion.   Very  natural  and  as  old  as  the  uni 
verse,"  said  the  Doctor.     "Not  what  you 
would  call  a  Platonic  interest,  but— 

"Damn  Platonic  interest;  of  course  not," 
I  interrupted.  "I  don't  believe  there  is 
such  a  thing.  I  don't  pretend  to  it,  at  any 
rate.  I  like  the  girl,  like  her  company; 
that's  all  there  is  about  it." 


78  Confessions  of  a  Fool. 

"Just  so,"  said  the  Doctor,  still  imper- 
turbable. "You  have  liked  a  good  immy 
girls  before — liked  their  company.  A 
bright,  pretty  girl  is  a  pleasant  compan- 
ion, to  be  sure.  It's  pleasant  to  take  her 
around  with  you,  to  take  her  sleigh-riding, 
and  it's  fun  to  hold  her  little  hand  in  yours 
and  to  kiss  her " 

"'Now,  Doc,  you  are  laughing  at  me,"  I 
expostulated. 

"Never  more  serious  in  my  life,  Dick, 
although  you  deserve  to  be  laughed  at,  sure 
enough.  But  it  may  not  be  a  laughing 
matter  for  this  unknown  Helen,  you  know. 
Not  that  I  can  have  any  interest  in  Helen, 
or  any  other  girl  you  may  take  to,  after  all, 
except  that  in  doing  her  an  injury,  you  do 
yourself  one;  and  you  know  I  care  for  you, 
old  man." 


Doctor  Tom.  79 

"Well,  Doc,"  I  ejaculated,  "that's  a  fun- 
ny way  of  getting  around  to  me." 

"It  may  be  funny,  but  I  would  have  no 
reason  to  interest  myself  in  anybody's  af- 
fair, except  for  an  interest  in  one  of  the 
parties  to  it.  If  I  knew  Helen  I  should 
be  inclined  to  sympathize  with  her,  per- 
haps. But  as  it  is  she  is  only  the  indirect 
cause  of  my  complaint.  As  I  understand  it, 
here  is  .a  young  girl  whose  acquaintance 
you  made  quite  informally,  but  who,  de- 
spite that,  is  an  estimable  enough  young 
woman,  rather  beneath  you  socially  and  in- 
tellectually, I  suppose,  but  bright  and  am- 
iable enough  to  be  good  company.  You  are 
not  a  rake  or  a  roue,  and  she,  as  a  young 
business  woman,  is  doubtless  very  well 
able  to  take  care  of  herself  if  she  chooses 
to.  Still  the  fact  that  she  accepts  your  at- 


80  Confessions  of  a  Foot. 

tention  shows  that  she  likes  you  fairly  well, 
and,  some  day,  she  may  think  that  she  is  in 
love  with  yon.  Then  what  are  you  going 
to  do  about  it?  Of  course  you  won't  be 
foolish  enough  to  marry  her — though  you 
would,  if  you  were  the  hero  of  a  story,  de- 
spite friends,  social  station  and  everything 
else.  But  the  last  chapter  of  her  story 
under  these  circumstances  is  going  to  be  a 
pathetic  one,  and  what  is  to  you  an  incident 
will  be  an  important  part  of  the  plot  in 
her  romance,  and  thus  result  in  some  little 
damage  to  you  as  a  man.  If  you  should  do 
nothing  worse  than  make  a  fool  of  yourself, 
that's  bad  enough." 

"I  don't  know  why  I  shouldn't  marry 
Helen,"  I  exclaim,  with  a  spurt  of  indigna- 
tion. 

"Xonsense!"  cried  the  Doctor,   laughing 


Doctor  Tom.  81 


out  loud.  <rTou  know  you  would  do  noth- 
ing of  the  sort.  Such  an  idea  would  never 
have  entered  your  head  if  I  hadn't  hit  you 
up  to  it.  Don't  be  any  more  foolish  than 
you  already  have  been.  Only  quit  your 
foolishness  before  you  have  done  any  more 
harm  to  this  girl — and  to  yourself.  You 
are  simply  amusing  yourself,  and  you  know 
it.  But  only  fools  amuse  themselves  all 
the  time,  and  only  knaves  at  other  folks' 
expense." 

The  Doctor's  eyes  were  quite  serious. 
When  I  look  into  those  calm  eyes  of  his  I 
am  able  to  see  myself  much  more  plainly 
and  clearly  than  when  I  face  a  mirror.  I 
can  no  more  become  angry  with  the  re- 
flection than  I  can  when  I  discover  the  evi- 
dences of  a  night's  spree  in  the  looking- 
glass  the  following  moruiug.  I  take  a  grim 


83  Confessions  of  a  Foot. 

interest  in  the  observation  and  only  want 
to  get  away  from  further  contemplation. 

We  had  a  good-night  heel-tap  of  the 
Kirschewasser,  and  then  I  departed  for 
my  lodgings. 

On  my  dressing-case  there  is  a  little 
framed  photograph  of  Helen.  It  is  a  com- 
monplace enough  little  face — there  are  hun- 
dreds like  it  in  the  world,  no  doubt;  but 
the  eyes  are  very  bright,  the  lips  half- 
parted  in  a  smile,  a  very  sweet  smile.  She 
is  a  pretty  girl,  is  Helen. 

Perhaps  it  was  the  Kirschewasser  re- 
leasing its  delightful  hold;  perhaps  it  was 
a  something  from  what  the  dear  old  Doc 
had  said;  but  as  I  looked  at  the  picture 
that  night  the  brightness  seemed  to  go  out 
of  Helen's  eyes,  the  smile  gave  place  to  a 
pitiful  drooping  of  the  lips. 


Doctor  Tom.  83 


And  then  another  face  seemed  to  come 
in  the  frame.  It  was  the  most  pitiful  face 
I  ever  saw.  I  had  known  it  once,  and  I 
often  recalled  it.  A  photograph  of  it  lay 
in  a  drawer  of  the  dressing-case,  and  I  took 
it  out  and  looked  at  it  before  I  retired.  It 
brought  the  tears  to  my  eyes, 


CHAPTEE  IX. 

A  DAILY   ROUND. 

I  haven't  for  a  long  time  indulged  in  the 
doubtful  luxury  of  a  cocktail  before  break- 
fast until  this  morning — after  last  night's 
little  talk  with  the  Doctor. 

I  don't  believe  in  the  practice,  although 
I  used  to  think  it  a  necessity.  This  morn- 
ing, however,  I  took  a  cocktail  before  leav- 
ing my  rooms  for  breakfast.  I  mixed  the 
drink  myself,  and  it  was  a  fine  one — as  hon- 
est as  the  famous  punch  that  Father  Tom 
concocted  for  the  Pope. 

I  had  not  slept  very  well,  but  the  cocktail 
had  the  usual  salutary  effect,  and  I  felt 

84 


A  Daily  Round.  85 

quite  like  business  when  I  reached  my  of- 
fice. Unfortunately,  as  I  am  now  disposed 
to  regard  it,  an  old  friend  and  customer 
from  up  country  dropped  in  in  the  fore- 
noon. Gorton  Bowie  is  a  good  business 
man  for  an  office,  but  he  doesn't  know  how 
to  deal  with  some  of  our  customers.  I  have 
to  do  all  the  drinking  for  the  concern,  and 
the  old  friend  and  I  had  three  or  four  cock- 
tails before  the  business  transaction  that 
occasioned  his  visit  to  town  was  consum- 
mated. After  which  I  lunched  him  at  the 
club  and  devoted  the  afternoon  to  him  up 
to  train  time. 

The  dining  hour  found  me  at  a  favorite 
cafe,  prepared  to  enjoy  a  large  bottle  and  a 
luxurious  selection  a  la  carte.  The  cafe  is 
always  lively  at  this  hour,  because  lots  of 
men  and  women  about  town  come  in  for 


Confessions  of  a  Foot. 


dinner  before  going  to  the  theatres.  The 
Widow  came  in,  with  that  confounded 
Faxon,  of  course.  I  had  just  finished  with 
soup,  and  I  went  over  to  their  table  to  pay 
my  respects  to  the  Widow.  She  was  ex- 
ceedingly jolly  and  good  natured,  patted 
me  on  the  shoulder  and  expressed  herself 
as  charmed  with  a  "little  party  she  had  ob- 
served with  me  at  the  opera  the  night  be- 
fore." Was  it  the  same  one  she  had  seen 
me  with  driving  and  on  the  street?  How 
delighted  she  would  be  to  make  her  ac- 
quaintance. As  a  friend  of  mine  she  was 
sure  the  young  person  would  be  pleasant  to 
know.  Was  she  an  old  friend  or  some  one 
I  had  but  recently  met?  The  latter,  of 
course,  else  she  was  sure  she  would  have 
seen  her  before.  How  good  of  me  to  pay 
attention  to  a  young  girl  scarcely  out  of 


A  Daily  Round.  87 

,her  teens.  I  was  always  so  good.  But  she 
trusted  I  would  not  forget  old  friends,  etc., 
etc. 

I  joined  them  in  a  glass  of  Faxon's  sau- 
terne-cup,  and  the  Widow  was  gracious 
enough  to  propose  the  health  of  "Dick's 
unknown." 

Then  I  went  back  to  my  dinner,  finished 
my  bottle  of  wine  with  the  fish  and  had 
another  bottle. 

At  the  theatre  a  box  full  of  fellows  in- 
vited me  to  join  them,  and  proposed  that  af- 
ter the  last  curtain  we  have  a  "little  game." 
I  invited  them  to  use  my  rooms  and  left 
the  theatre  just  before  the  curtain  rose  on 
the  last  act,  to  get  things  ready  and  be  sure 
that  the  tides  were  not  low  in  the  decan- 
ters. 

I    expect    the    boys     every    minute.      I 


Confessions  of  a  Fool. 


know  what  their  coming  means.  They  will 
sit  down  to  play  for  "just  an  hour's  pas- 
time," and  about  sunrise  they  will  wind  up 
the  pastime  with  a  round  of  jack-pots.  As 
their  host,  I  shall  enjoy  having  them  driiik 
my  decanters  empty,  smoke  up  the  cigars 
and  cigarettes  on  hand,  and  probably  they 
will  take  away  with  them  all  the  stray  cash 
I  have  with  me. 

I  face  the  inevitable  with  a  complacent 
resignation,  born  of  experience  with  things 
inevitable.  It  will  be  great  fun. 


CHAPTER  X. 

TWO   WOMEN    AND   A   MAN. 

My  business  trip  didn't  amount  to  much, 
and  I  didn't  dare  look  Bowie  in  the  face 
when  I  came  home,  lie  is  such  a  cautious 
chap ;  never  likes  to  let  go  of  a  cent  unless 
he  can  see  a  cent  and  a  quarter  started  and 
halfway  back  on  the  return  home  to  the 
safe. 

Still  Bowie  is  mighty  handy.  I  don't 
know  what  I  should  do  without  him — don't 
know  what  the  business  would  do  without 
him.  He  keeps  a  sharp  eye  on  the  ac- 
counts and  collects  bills  from  men  that  I 
would  rather  lose  a  leg  than  ask  for 

89 


90  Confessions  of  a  Fool. 

money.  Since  we  made  a  stock  com- 
pany of  the  concern  lie  has  been  especially 
valuable.  Doing  business  as  a  corpora- 
tion is  very  different  from  a  partnership 
arrangement.  He  is  very  proud  of  his  po- 
sition as  treasurer.  Just  to  think  of  it, 
it  wasn't  ten  years  ago  that  he  came  out 
of  college,  where  he  had  worked  his  way 
to  the  valedictory,  and  took  a  desk  in  the 
office  at  four  dollars  a  week,  with  his  edu- 
cation thrown  in.  The  old  man  didn't  like 
him  at  first;  took  some  sort  of  prejudice 
against  him.  But  Gorton  had  so  much  bus- 
iness sand  that  the  old  man  had  to  sur- 
render his  prejudices  in  the  face  of  Gor- 
ton's ability.  He  used  to  say  he  wished  I 
was  more  like  Gorton  in  some  respects, 
and  that  Gorton  was  more  like  me  in  some 
respects.  Gorton  is  a  little  cold,  for  a  fact, 


Two  Women  and  a  Man. 


and  my  dear  old  father  liked  warm-hearted 
natures  himself — after  business  hours.  He 
used  to  say  that  he  liked  to  see  young  men 
have  some  spirit  in  their  natures — not 
grow  old  too  fast.  But  somehow  it  was  the 
other  kind  that  he  took  into  his  employ. 

As  for  Gorton  Bowie,  he  never  was*  cold 
to  me.  In  fact,  when  I  made  stock  in  the 
company  available  to  him,  no  fellow  could 
have  exhibited  gratitude  more  warmly.  I 
don't  know  as  I  can  blame  him  for  being 
a  little  stiff  sometimes  nowadays,  for  I  am 
aware  that  I  put  about  as  much  of  the 
business  on  his  shoulders  as  he  can  well 
stand,  and  draw  out  of  the  treasury  about 
as  much  money  as  the  business  can  well 
stand. 

If  business  wasn't  good,  however,  the 
trip  was  not  without  its  advantages.  I 


93  Confessions  of  a  Fool. 

saw  Mollie  Hayden.  My!  what  a  stunning 
girl  she  is.  I  think  she  would  please  even 
the  Doctor.  She's  what  he  would  call  in- 
tellectual, even  though  she  doesn't  make 
too  obvious  a  point  of  it.  She  told  me  that 
Kate  had  invited  her  to  visit  her  for  a  few 
weeks  during  Lent,  and  she  thought  she 
would  come  on.  I  can't  conceive  why  Kate 
should  arrange  for  a  visit  in  Lent,  when 
the  festivities  must  of  necessity  be  re- 
stricted; but  it  is  fortunate  for  me,  because 
I  shall  be  able  to  have  more  of  her  com- 
pany alone  and  away  from  the  social  mob. 

Come  to  think  of  it,  maybe  Kate  has 
planned  it  with  that  very  end  in  view! ' 

At  any  rate,  I  am  convinced  that  I  am 
very  much  in  love.  A  fellow  couldn't  make 
a  happier  stroke  of  it  than  trying  to  cap- 
ture Mollie  Hayden.  A  girl  like  that  you 


Two  Women  and  a  Man. 


wouldn't  need  to  have  any  sentiment  about 
to  be  practically  happy  with.  Sentiment 
is  easy  enough  to  arouse  in  oneself,  but 
solid,  substantial  happiness  is  the  only  real 
thing  worth  securing,  or  that  you  can  get 
any  sort  of  a  firm  grip  on. 

I  wonder  what  Helen  will  have  to  say 
should  I  ever  tell  her  that  I  hope  to  be 
married.  I  don't  natter  myself  that  she 
will  take  it  much  to  heart,  for  she  is  a 
very  business-like  little  party,  and  decid- 
edly matter-of-fact.  I  have  got  in  the  habit 
recently  of  making  quite  a  confidante  of 
Helen.  As  a  confidante  she  is  delightful. 
Eminently  sympathetic,  yet  without  much 
nonsense  in  her  composition.  She  told  me 
she  thought  it  very  foolish  to  sell  stock 
in  my  business  so  to  get  funds  for  outside 
investment,  as  I  did  last  January.  That 


94  Confessions  of  a  Fool. 


was  quite  a  wise  opinion,  and  shows  what 
a  common-sense  sort  of  a  head  Helen  has 
on  her  shoulders,  though  I  silenced  her 
when  I  told  her  about  the  snug  little  profit 
I  secured  from  the  spec.  We  had  a  little 
supper  on  it,  and  Helen  sipped  a  glass  of 
champagne.  The  charming  girl  was  alto- 
gether sweet. 

It  seems  queer,  when  I  stop  to  think 
about  it,  this  habit  I  have  got  into  of  tell- 
ing Helen  all  sorts  of  things  about  myself. 
She  never  has  anything  to  say  about  her- 
self now,  but  seems  wonderfully  interest- 
ed in  what  concerns  me,  whether  it  be  bus- 
iness or  pleasure.  I  really  do  not  think  I 
could  ever  talk  over  my  own  affairs  with 
any  other  woman  alive — not  even  Mollie 
Hayden.  And  I  enjoy  it  immensely  with 
Helen.  If  s  a  relief  when  I'm  worried  to 


Two  Women  and  a  Man.  95 

talk  with  her,  and  it  is  a  pleasure  had  over 
again  to  recite  my  good  times  to  her. 

Some  day  you'll  fall  in  love  with  some 
fine  fellow,  Helen,  and  marry  him.  And  I 
will  be  your  godfather  and  see  that  you 
have  something  handsome  to  remind  you 
of  the  days  when  we  were  chums. 


CHAPTEE  XI. 

THE  UNEXPECTED. 

Mollie  Hayden  looked  inexpressibly  fine 
when  she  stepped  off  the  train,  and  she 
greeted  me  with  as  delicious  a  smile  as  it 
was  ever  my  good  fortune  to  get. 

She  rode  up  to  the  house  with  us — Kate 
and  I.  The  two  girls — I  shall  always  call 
Kate  a  girl,  I  suppose,  though  she's  thirty- 
eight,  if  she's  a  day — sat  on  the  back  seat, 
and  I  was  with  the  man  in  front.  Mar- 
berry  has  recently  acquired  a  man,  and  is 
altogether  cutting  quite  a  wide  swathe  as 
he  grows  older.  I  am  glad  he  is  doing  so 
well,  for  Kate's  sake. 

96 


The  Unexpected.  97 

Mollie  chatted  about  the  trip,  and  Kate 
and  I  were  good  listeners.  Mollie's  yoice 
is,  as  I  think  I  have  before  observed,  a  dis- 
tinct contralto,  quite  heavy,  but  'wonder- 
fully good-toned  and  resonant.  Cultivat- 
ed, I  think  she  could  sing  like  Scalchi  in 
her  best  days.  Her  enunciation  is  alto- 
gether delightful.  I  believe  she  has  had 
some  dramatic  training.  She  says  "won't" 
and  not  "woon't"  and  never  permits  the 
final  "t"  and  the  following  "y"  to  make 
"chew"  when  she  says  "won't  you." 

I  left  the  Marberrys  early  after  dinner 
with  a  promise  to  call  the  next  forenoon, 
and  proceed  to  make  myself  entertain- 
ing. The  snow  is  all  off  the  ground,  though 
not  out  of  it,  and  the  early  Spring  days 
are  beginning  to  be  comfortable  for  out- 
of-doors  diversion.  We  found  that  Mollie 


Confessions  of  a  Fool. 


had  no  objections  to  a  Lenten  theatre 
party,  and  I  agreed  to  help  Kate  in  making 
up  one  before  the  week  was  out.  Kate 
had  already  planned  a  mild  and  unsacri- 
legions  reception  and  an  afternoon  tea, 
and  these  were  expected  to  open  the  doors 
for  a  return  of  courtesies  of  a  similarly 
harmless  nature  to  help  to  make  Mollie's 
Lenten  visit  pleasant,  if  not  hilarious. 

I  asked  permission  to  bring  the  Doctor 
to  luncheon  next  day.  To  tell  the  truth,  I 
wanted  to  shoulder  onto  the  Doctor  some 
of  the  pleasant  burden  of  helping  Kate 
out.  The  Doctor  is  full  of  expedients  and 
can  think  up  unique  ideas  for  entertaining 
a  woman  far  better  than  I  ever  could.  If 
Mollie  were  a  man,  I  would  be  more  at 
home  at  devising  entertainments.  Indeed, 
I  have  quite  a  reputation  in  that  line,  and 


The  Unexpected.  99 


am  quoted  abroad  as  a  vender  of  good 
times  on  so  splendid  a  scale  tliat  the  re- 
cipients do  not  recover  from  them  for  some 
days  after  they  get  out  of  town,  and  hold 
them  in  tender  memory  until  they  may, 
happily,  return  for  more. 

I  never  knew  the  Doctor  to  exhibit  him- 
self more  charmingly  than  he  did  at  lunch- 
eon. He  quite  let  himself  loose  to  be  agree- 
able to  Kate,  and  seemed  to  enjoy  im- 
mensely Mollie's  vigorous  attempts  to 
combat  him  over  certain  questions  affect- 
ing woman's  sphere,  which  came  up  for 
'cross-the-table  discussion.  The  Doctor 
elucidated  some  pronounced  ideas  as  to 
the  sphere  of  woman,  which  developed  the 
fact  that  Miss  Hayden  had  equally  pro- 
nounced ideas  of  her  own  and  quite  se- 
riously in  opposition  to  those  held  by  the 


100  Confessions  of  a  Fool. 

Doctor.  Before  the  dispute,  the  Doctor 
rather  staggered  me  by  wanting  to  know 
if  Miss  Hayden  wouldn't  enjoy  going 
through  one  of  the  hospitals,  a  suggestion 
which  the  superb  young  woman  seized 
upon  with  a  cheerful  alacrity.  So  we 
planned  to  all  visit  the  hospital  next  day. 
Mollie  Hayden  in  a  hospital  seemed 
quite  as  much  at  home  as  Mollie  Hayden  in 
a  drawing-room,  and  expressed  a  little  as- 
tonishment that,  intimately  acquainted  as 
we  were  with  a  house  surgeon,  Kate  and 
I  had  heretofore  neglected  to  take  advan- 
tage of  it  in  this  wise.  It  appeared  that 
our  guest,  while  possessed  of  no  superior 
knowledge  of  medicine  and  surgery,  knew 
the  difference  between  a  deltoid  muscle 
and  a  corpuscle,  and  proved  a  most  in- 
telligent listener  to  what  the  Doctor  had 


The  Unexpected. 


to  say  to  lier.  The  two  women  had  brought 
some  flowers  for  distribution  among  the 
sufferers,  and  the  experience  was  alto- 
gether pleasant  and  not  unprofitable. 

I  remarked  to  Kate  as  we  watched  the 
Doctor  explaining  to  Miss  Hayden  some 
sort  of  a  mechanism  for  the  convenient  re- 
pose of  a  broken  leg,  that  I  thought,  if  my 
yellow-headed  friend  could  find  another 
woman  like  Mollie  Hayden,  he  would  cease 
to  be  so  generally  benevolent  in  his  asso- 
ciations with  womankind,  and  make  up 
his  mind  to  marry  that  particular  one. 

Indeed,  I  repeated  that  remark  in  sub- 
stance to  Doctor  Tom  one  evening  some 
weeks  later,  as  Miss  Hayden's  stay  was 
drawing  to  a  close.  The  Doctor  and  I 
were  driving  home  in  the  former's  buggy 
from  the  Marberrys'  after  an  evening  of 


102  Confessions  of  a  Fool. 

progressive  euchre — a  pastime  that  is 
despicable  to  my  miiid,  and  fitted  only  for 
Lenten  makeshift.  The  Doctor  whipped  up 
his  horse,  and  remarked  that  he  didn't  be- 
lieve there  was  another  woman  on  earth  like 
Miss  Hayden.  There  was  so  extraordinary 
a  tone  in  his  voice,  and  the  words  echoed 
what  was  in  my  own  mind  so  exactly,  that 
my  cigar  nearly  slipped  from  between  my 
fingers. 

"Come  in,"  said  the  Doctor,  as  he  turned 
the  hitch-up  over  to  his  boy  at  the  office 
door.  We  went  into  the  cosy  rooms,  where 
my  good  friend  receives  patients  who  are 
able  to  be  out,  and  he  arranged  a  pair  of 
leather-covered  easy  chairs  in  front  of  the 
open  hearth,  and  proceeded  to  poke  a 
smouldering  log  into  flame,  for  the  Spring 
dampness  still  kept  the  office  chilly. 


TJie  Unexpected.  103 

"What'll  you  have?"  inquired  the  Doc- 
tor, sententiously,  as  I  dropped  into  one  of 
the  leather  chairs,  while  he  stood  by  the 
other,  awaiting  my  pleasure. 

"Nothing  better  than  whiskey  at  this 
hour,"  I  remarked,  modestly. 

The  Doctor  plunged  his  hands  into  his 
pockets  and  looked  intently  into  the  fire, 
as  if  for  the  moment  he  had  forgotten  his 
immediate  surroundings  and  was  allowing 
his  mind  to  wander  in  even  pleasanter 
paths.  He  awakened  with  a  start. 

"Whiskey,  did  you  say?"  he  cried  out, 
with  a  peculiar  thrill  in  his  voice.  "Non- 
sense, old  man;  that  is  dross.  I  have  a 
case  of  Imperial  Cuvee  that  one  of  my  pa- 
tients presented  me  only  last  week,  which 
I  believe  was  built  for  this  occasion.  Fin- 
ish your  cigar  while  I  fetch  up  a  quart." 


104  Confessions  of  a  Foot. 

"And  wli.it  is  this  especial  occasion?" 
I  inquired,  as  the  Doctor  returns  with  the 
handsome  package  of  sparkling  wine,  a 
couple  of  glasses,  and  a  bowl  of  ice,  for  the 
latter  of  which  he  apologizes. 

"I  hadn't  opened  the  case,"  he  explains, 
"and.  you  will  have  to  use  the  ice  in  your 
glass.  What  is  the  especial  occasion,  do  you 
ask?"  and  the  Doctor  snapped  the  stout 
cord  of  wire  about  the  neck  of  the  bottle, 
and  with  his  strong-tipped  fingers,  pro- 
ceeded to  work  at  the  cork  to  start  it. 
"Well,  I'm  going  to  be  married  to  a  lovely 
woman.  As  my  oldest  and  nearest  friend,  I 
give  you  the  earliest  authoritative  informa- 
tion, and  ask  you  to  quaff  a  little  of  this 
ffine  wine  to  our  health  and  happiness." 

"And  the  wedding  is  to  come  off  when?" 
T  inquire,  quite  calmly. 


The  Unexpected.  105 

"Some  time  in  the  Fall." 
"And  the  lovely  woman  is  who?" 
"Miss   Hayden,"   and  "pop!"   went    the 
champagne  cork  toward  the  ceiling. 

I  rise  from  the  big  chair  and  shake  the 
Doctor's  hand  warmly.  Then  he  fills  the 
glasses,  touching  them  together  with  a 
hearty  clink,  as  in  the  old  college  days. 
We  sip  off  the  topmost  beads,  and  as  the 
Doctor  places  the  bottle  on  the  floor  be- 
tween us,  we  both  sit  down.  The  logs  on 
the  hearth  crackle,  and  I  am  watching  the 
flame.  The  Doctor  is  watching  me  with 
the  smile  of  a  boy,  his  blue  eyes  sparkling. 
After  a  moment,  I  remarked  with  a  laugh: 
"Doctor,  you  are  a  rapid  worker  when 
you  undertake  a  case." 

"Well,  Dick,"  said  he,  "I  don't  believe 
there  is  anybody  so  charming  in  the  world 


106  Confessions  of  a  Foot. 

as  this  friend  of  your  sister's,  Marberry's 
cousin.  To  see  her  was  to  admire  her,  and 
to  know  her  was  to  love  her  beyond  meas- 
ure. To  be  sure,  the  acquaintance  has  been 
only  a  short  one,  but  it  seems  as  if  I  had 
known  her  a  lifetime.  I  made  up  my  mind 
before  I  was  thirty  that  I  should  never 
marry.  My  profession  had  for  me  all  the 
interest  I  wanted  in  life.  But,  when  I 
woke  up  and  realized  that  that  girl's  face 
was  before  my  eyes  day  and  night,  I  came 
to  the  conclusion  that  I  needed  her,  and  de- 
cided that  I  would  have  her  if  I  could  get 
her.  I've  built  up  a  good  practice,  my  in- 
come is  sufficient,  and  I  don't,  see  why  I 
shouldn't  have  what  I  want." 

"Strikes  me  you  were  a  little  precipitate. 
Doc,"  I  suggest,  with  an  attempt  of  play- 
ful criticism. 


The  Unexpected.  107 


"And  vihy  not?"  demanded  the  Doctor, 
quite  seriously.  "The  risk  of  venturing 
to  ask  her  was  all  mine,  and  when  I  look 
back  upon  it,  I  realize  that  it  was  a  tre- 
mendous risk,  for  I  have  been  little  more 
than  ordinarily  attentive  to  her  since  she 
has  been  here — since  I  have  known  her.  I 
suppose  the  wiser  plan  is  to  do  your  court- 
ing first,  but  as  I  have  had  neither  a  de- 
sire to,  nor  experience  in,  paying  court,  1 
neglected  to  go  at  it  that  way.  Fortu- 
nately it  has  come  out  all  right,  and  I  can 
do  my  courting  now. 

"It's  a  delicate  subject,  Doctor,"  I  re- 
mark, after  a  few  more  sips  of  the  wine, 
"but  the  situation  is  so  peculiar,  that  I 
would  like  immensely  to  know  how  Miss 
Hayden  accepted  it." 

The  Doctor  laughs  pleasantly,  and  re- 


108  Confessions  of  a  Fool. 

plies:  "Why,  I  would  as  lief  tell  you  as  not, 
but  I  don't  know.  I  remember  asking  her 
if  she  would  be  my  wife,  or  something  to 
that  effect,  and  then  I  remember  thinking 
that  I  ought  to  say  something  about  being 
in  love  with  her.  But  somehow  that 
wouldn't  come.  I  think  she  said  nothing 
whatever,  except  'yes/  and  I  remember  that 
she  said  it  in  a  very  clear  voice,  quietly 
enough.  And  that  is  all  there  was  to  it. 
It  was  a  very  simple  operation,  after  all." 

Neither  of  us  speaks  for  a  few  moments. 
Then  the  Doctor  picks  the  bottle  from  the 
floor  and  passes  it  to  me  with : 

"Here;  finish  this  wine.  I  shan't  want 
another  drop.  It  somehow  tastes  as  flat  as 
water." 

And  I  finish  the  quart.  It  tasted  like  fire 
to  me — glorious  fire.  I  wanted  fire. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

JUST   DYSPEPSIA. 

What  the  novelists  call  a  disappoint- 
ment in  love  affects  a  man  differently  at 
different  periods  of  life. 

If  he  is  twenty-one  it  comes  as  near  to 
breaking  his  heart  as  that  operation  is  pos- 
sible of  accomplishment. 

At  twenty-six  it  may  drive  him  to  drink. 

After  he  has  passed  thirty  the  result  is 
likely  to  be  an  attack  of  nervous  dyspepsia. 

And  from  a  somewhat  satisfying  expe- 
rience I  have  come  to  the  conclusion  that 
nervous  dyspepsia  is  by  all  odds  the  worst 
infliction  that  it  lies  within  the  power  of 
woman  to  impose  upon  a  man. 

109 


110  Confessions  of  a  Fool. 

And  yet,  I  haven't  the  heart  to  throw 
any  blame  upon  Miss  Hayden.  Indeed,  I 
am  compelled  to  a  respect  that  almost 
overcomes  the  sentiments  of  admiration 
with  which  she  always  inspired  me,  be- 
cause, knowing  so  little  about  me,  she  yet 
instinctively  realized  that  I  am  not  the 
best  fellow  in  the  world  for  her — if,  in- 
deed, I  am  for  any  one. 

The  Widow,  to  be  sure,  assures  me  that 
I  am  the  best  fellow  in  the  world  for  any- 
body, although  she  does  not  hesitate  to 
avail  herself  of  Faxon's  trap,  or  yacht, 
even  though  I  may  not  be  present,  and 
when,  indeed,  I  would  be  pleased  to  place 
at  her  disposal  my  modest  Goddard,  with 
myself  for  her  sole  companion. 

Kate  was  very  much  disturbed  when 
next  I  called  upon  her,  which  was  several 


Just  Dyspepsia. 


days  after  the  enjoyment  of  the  Doctor's 

quart  bottle.    I  dropped  in  after  the  lunch- 

eon   hour,    and   learned    that   Miss    Hay- 

den  was  out  —  with  the  Doctor.    Kate  in- 

formed me  that  the  Doctor  had  been  very 

attentive  to  her  guest,  as  well  as  to  herself, 

in  my  absence,  and  her  voice  expressed 

something  much  like  disappointment. 

"Of  course  you  know  the  reason,  Kate,'' 
I  ventured. 

"Mollie  has  told  me  everything,"  replied 
my  sister.  "Your  friend,  the  Doctor,  is  a 
very  charming  fellow,  but  I  hoped  for 
something  different." 

"For  my  sake,  I  know  you  mean,  Kate," 
I  said.  "Well,  I  can  but  feel  that  Miss 
Hayden  is  altogether  too  splendid  a  woman 
to  be  used  as  a  redeemer  for  a  fellow  like 
me." 


112  Confessions  of  a  Fool. 

"You  are  unjust  to  yourself,  Dick,"  said 
my  sister.  "You  are  well  connected  and 
generally  well  regarded.  You  are  weak 
and  careless  with  yourself,  but —  '  and 
Kate  paused. 

"But  very  few  persons  have  tumbled  to 
the  fact  yet — that's  what  you  would  say?" 
I  suggest,  with  desperate  flippancy. 

"Perhaps  that  is  what  I  mean,  and  per- 
haps it  is  not,"  returned  my  sister,  with 
some  severity.  "You  mustn't  talk  about 
yourself  in  that  style — you  mustn't  think 
about  yourself  in  that  way.  You  are  kind 
and  good  and  clever  with  the  rest  of  the 
world,  and  it's  time  you  had  some  respect 
for  yourself.  If  you  would  marry  some 
good  woman  she  could  make  you  respect 
yourself.  Indeed,  if  you  could  have  won 
a  girl  like  Mollie  Hayden,  that  alone  could 


Just  Dyspepsia.  113 

but  raise  you  in  your  own  estimation  to  a 
proper  regard  for  yourself." 

"Precisely — and  I  find  that  I  simply  can't 
fool  that  kind  of  woman,"  I  remark,  with 
an  ugly  laugh. 

"What  a  wretched  state  you  are  in," 
cried  Kate,  angrily.  "I  don't  ask  you  to 
fool  anybody.  I  only  want  you  to  be  your- 
self— your  better  self.  Any  woman  would 
be  proud  to  be  my  brother's  wife  if  he  were 
only  as  much  of  a  man  as  he  might  be,  and 
you  know  it." 

"Humph!  That's  like  regretting  that 
the  talents  possessed  by  a  first-class  bur- 
glar or  murderer  were  not  turned  into  more 
respectable  directions  when  we  know  that, 
however  clever  the  talents  are,  they  would 
have  been  flat  and  unproductive  if  they 
hadn't  been  occupied  according  to  their 


114  Confessions  of  a  Foot 

bent — 'burgling  or  murdering.  A  smart 
mechanic  wouldn't  necessarily  make  a 
smart  preacher.  You  can't  tune  the  cat- 
gut of  your  guitar  to  sound  like  the  wire 
string,  although  it  may  be  the  finest  piece 
of  catgut  in  the  world.  I  can't  be  any  dif- 
ferent than  I  am,  Kate,  and,  to  tell  the 
truth,  I've  about  given  up  trying." 

"That's  a  man's  sophistry,"  cried  Kate, 
with  decision.  Her  eyes  flashed  and  her 
bosom  rose  and  fell  with  quick,  angry 
breaths.  "Decent  influences  could  make 
up  for  the  qualities  that  are  lacking  in  you 
to  make  you  as  fine  a  man  as  there  is  in 
the  world.  Miss  Hayden  could  have  done 
it." 

"And  you  would  have  risked  sacrificing 
her  to  the  undertaking.  That's  very  good 
of  you,  Kate." 


Just  Dyspepsia. 


"I  would  sacrifice  myself  for  you,  Dick. 
But  I  don't  think  she  would  have  been  sac- 
rificed." 

"One  woman  tried  it  and  failed,"  I  re- 
mark, after  a  moment. 

"Yes,  poor  little  thing.  But  you  were 
younger,  then,  and  she  was  hardly  the  kind 
of  a  girl  to  save  a  man,  sweet  and  dear  as 
she  was." 

"I  would  give  a  good  deal  to  have  her 
back  again,"  I  interrupt,  with  bitterness. 

"Of  course  you  would,  dear,"  said  my  sis- 
ter, tenderly.  "Of  course  you  would.  And 
I  feel  that  you  owe  to  her  a  great  deal  as  it 
is,  and  that  we  all  do." 

"It  cost  her  too  much,"  I  put  in  savagely. 
"I  don't  want  to  talk  about  it.  I  wish  she 
and  you  had  let  me  alone  to  tumble  into  a 
dissolute's  grave  ten  years  ago." 


116  Confessions  of  a  Fool. 

"Oh,  Dick!"  pleaded  my  sister.  "Don't 
talk  so.  You  make  me  sick  at  heart.  I  only 
mean  this,  if  she  had  been  a  stronger  woman, 
stronger  in  will  and  in  body,  and  yet  pos- 
sessed of  all  her  sweetness  and  gracious- 
ness,  she  would  have  accomplished  what 
her  love  for  you  inspired  her  to  set  out  to 
do." 

"Precisely,  Kate,  but  the  women  of  the 
kind  you  mention  have  too  fine  a  destiny 
to  pursue  and  too  noble  a  sphere  to  fill  to 
make  sacrifices  for  the  sake  of  redeeming 
some  damn  fool  who,  when  he  is  redeemed, 
may  prove  not  to  be  worth  the  bother." 

"Well,  Dick,"  said  my  sister,  after  look- 
ing at  me  intently  for  a  moment  that 
seemed  like  an  hour,  "I  don't  know  as  I 
know  what  anybody  is  going  to  do  for  you, 
or  do  with  you,  when  you  'talk  and  feel  like 


Just  Dyspepsia.  117 


that.  I  only  know  this,  that  the  love  of  a 
good  and  a  strong  and  high-minded  wom- 
an is  powerful  to  inspire  a  man  to  think 
well  of  himself,  and  I  don't  know  of  any- 
thing else  that  is  so  powerful.  Miss  Hay- 
den  is  that  kind  of  a  woman.  I  tell  you 
frankly,  what  you  already  know,  that  I 
wanted  you  to  marry  her.  I  was  willing 
to  commit  myself  to  the  effort  to  bring 
it  about — for  your  sake,  and  because,  too,  I 
did  not  fear  that  you  would  fail  me  or  ever 
make  her  or  me  regret  it.  That  is  all  over 
now,  Dick.  I  don't  know  how  you  feel  aboul 
it,  but  you  are  a  man  and  not  a  boy,  and 
will  the  more  readily  feel  assured  that 
there  are  other  women  in  the  world  as 
good,  as  brilliant,  as  attractive,  as  Mollie 
Hayden.  I  wish  you  would  find  such  a  one 
and  induce  her  to  be  your  wife." 


118  Confessions  of  a  Fool. 

"The  expediency  of  following  your  sug- 
gestion is  unquestionable,"  I  remark,  with 
an  attempt  at  a  laugh.  "And,  perhaps, 
when  I  am  a  little  bit  older,  love  will  more 
readily  wait  upon  expediency." 

Kate's  eyes  were  moist,  but  she  was  evi- 
dently quite  glad  to  have  me  laugh  at  her 
a  little. 

<fYou  may  be  as  mischievous  with  me  as 
you  like,  Dick,"  she  returned,  with  a  smil- 
ing light  drying  up  the  moisture  in  her 
eyes.  "Only  try  and  be  true  to  yourself." 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

HOT   AND   THIRSTY   DAYS.    • 

I  think  this  has  been  the  most  dismal 
summer  I  ever  /passed  in  my  life.  I  have 
been  in  town  through  all  the  hot  days,  and 
have  haunted  the  clubs  day  and  night  for 
company.  The  Marberrys'  house  has  been 
closed,  and  the  Doctor  was  away  during 
August,  spending  a  part  of  the  time,  I 
understand,  at  the  Hayden's.  I  haven't 
seen  him,  and  don't  want  to  see  him  or, 
anybody  else  but  the  circle  of  good  fellows 
who  meet  in  the  early  evenings  after  dinner 
at  the  Claremont,  and,  sitting  in  the  cool 
of  the  club  windows,  sip  endless  mixtures 

119 


120  Confessions  of  a  Fool. 


until  the  club  lights  are  extinguished.  The 
days  following  are  often  passed  in  a  meas- 
ure of  mental  and  physical  misery,  re- 
deemed by  a  Turkish  bath  in  the  afternoon 
and  the  inevitable  cocktail  before  dinner — 
and  the  Claremont  cocktail  is  of  a  charac- 
ter to  change  the  whole  face  of  nature  and 
make  the  .hot  city  pavements  to  seem  to 
blossom  with  roses  and  chrysanthemums. 
They  are  wonderfully  comforting,  too, 
when  the  stock  market  has  been  raising  the 
devil  with  my  margins. 

Thank  Heaven,  Gorton  Bowie  likes  to 
attend  to  business.  There  hasn't  been 
much  business  to  attend  to,  to  be  sure,  but 
what  there  is  commands  his  entire  effort. 
His  family  is  in  the  country,  and  he  runs 
down  every  night.  He  has  occasionally  in- 
vited me  to  put  in  a  Sunday  with  him,  but 


Hot  and  Thirsty  Days.  121 


I  despise  the  country,  and,  moreover,  as 
social  creatures,  neither  Bowie  nor  his  wife 
is  compatible — hardly  bearable.  Indeed, 
since  I  turned  over  to  him  that  last  block 
of  our  company's  stock  to  get  a  small  loan 
to  help  me  with  my  investments,  I  am  dis- 
posed to  see  as  little  of  him  as  is  necessary. 
I  don't  know  where  Bowie  gets  all  his 
money,  but  he  is  always  ready  to  advance 
me  reasonable  sums.  He  has  ever  been  a 
saving  sort  of  a  soul,  and  I  am  credibly 
informed  that  small  savings  accumulate 
into  sizable  deposits  if  they  are  kept  up 
long  enough. 

If  there  has  been  one  ray  of  white  light 
in  this — to  look  back  upon  it — dark  sum- 
mer it  has  been.  Helen.  I  have  taken 
Helen  over  a  number  of  pretty  drives  and 
on  an  excursion  or  two,  and  we  have  vis- 


123  Confessions  of  a  Fool. 

ited  the  parks  and  the  summer  gardens  to- 
gether. Helen's  mother  has  accompanied 
us  on  some  of  these.  Helen's  mother  is  an 
invalid,  and  I  have  learned  that  Helen  is 
not  only  her  sole  support,  but  that  the  girl 
is  practically  compelled  to  support  that 
rapscallion  of  a  brother  of  hers.  Helen  is 
delightful  company,  always.  I  find  that  she 
has  read  some  good  books  that  I  used  to 
read  in  my  college  days,  and  I  undertook 
to  look  some  of  them  over  so  that  we  might 
have  them  for  a  subject  of  conversation. 
I  wonder  what  Kate  would  say  to  Helen? 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

HELEN. 

I  want  to  jot  down  right  here  a  little  in- 
cident while  it  is  fresh  in  my  mind.  It  re- 
lates to  Helen.  A  good  many  of  my 
thoughts  recently  have  had  relation  to 
Helen.  I  don't  know,  now,  which  way  I 
shall  direct  them,  after  what  has  happened. 

It  was  the  night  of  the  wedding — Miss 
Hayden  and  the  Doctor.  Of  course,  I  was 
best  man.  It  is  not  unusual  for  the  groom 
to  make  a  best  man  of  the  fellow  who  most 
wanted  to  be  himself  groom,  although  I 
don't  think  either  the  Doctor  or  Miss  Hay- 
den  ever  regarded  me  seriously  as  such  a 
possibility. 

123 


124  Confessions  of  a  Fool. 

The  wedding  was  at  high  noon,  in 
church,  with  a  reception  at  the  home  of  the 
bride's  parents.  Later  in  the  afternoon 
bride  and  groom  departed  on  their  wed- 
ding journey.  I  left  the  company  in  the  re- 
ception room,  and,  lighting  a  cigar, 
strolled  out  on  the  lawn  to'breathe  the  cool 
October  breezes.  While  occupied  with  a 
miscellaneous  collection  of  thoughts  in- 
spired bythe  event  of  the  day  and  the  cigar, 
a  servant  brought  me  a  telegram.  I  opened 
it  and  read  the  following  message : 

"Mother  is  dead.    Can  you  come  to  me? 

"HELEN." 

There  was  something  in  those  five  last 
words  that  made  my  heart  leap.  It  had 
been  many  years  since  I  had  realized  the 
deliciousness  of  having  some  one — some 
woman — depend  upon  me  for  anything. 


Helen.  125 

Helen  and  I  had  never  exchanged  a  written 
word  in  the  course  of  our  acquaintanceship. 
The  simple  confidence  expressed  in  that  tel- 
egraphed query,  "Can  you  come  to  me?" 
was  positively  delightful. 

I  left  the  hospitable  home  of  the  Hay- 
dens  that  night.  The  next  evening  found 
me  in  the  house  of  mourning.  Neighbors 
had  been  in  and  had  helped  Helen  in  her 
extremity.  The  rapscallion  brother  was 
away,  no  one  knew  where.  Drunk,  prob- 
ably. Helen's  mother  had  died  very 
suddenly,  passing  away  while  asleep 
in  her  chair.  Helen  was  overcome  with 
grief  and  the  loneliness  and  helplessness 
of  her  position,  and  when  she  let  me  in  at 
the  door  she  burst  into  tears.  I  took  her 
hand  and  she  led  me  into  the  little  parlor. 

"Yon  were  good  to  co-me — I  didn't  know 


126  Confessions  of  a  Fool. 

what  to  do — the  people  about  me  have 
been  very  kind — but  somehow  I  needed 
some  one  stronger — I  wanted  you  and  you 
were  away — I  couldn't  help  asking  you— 

and,  oh!  you  are  so  good  to  come "  she 

tried  to  explain  in  broken  sentences. 

I  calmed  her  as  well  as  I  knew  how.  As 
a  rule,  houses  of  mourning  are  not  con- 
genial to  me,  as  they  are  quite  unfamiliar. 
My  mother  died  when  I  was  too  young  to 
appreciate  her  loss,  and  my  father's  pass- 
ing away  seemed  so  much  a  matter  of 
course  that  it  did  not  impress  me  except 
as  the  departure  forever  from  rny  side  of  a 
true  and  good  friend.  I  have  always  felt  a 
sort  of  cowardly  desire  to  shun  pain  and 
suffering  and  let  unhappiness  and  grief 
take  care  of  themselves. 

Somehow,  though,  I  was  conscious  of  a 


Helen.  12? 

certain  unharmonious  pleasure  sitting  here 
with  Helen  as  her  main  dependence  in  her 
hour  of  unparalleled  distress. 

All  this  only  leads  up  to  the  incident  I 
started  to  jot  down.  Helen's  troubles  did 
not  end  with  the  funeral.  By  her  mother's 
death  she  came  into  ownership  of  the  little 
cottage,  but  living  there  was  dreadfully 
lonesome  for  her,  I  knew.  I  suggested  that 
she  might  find  some  girl  among  her  ac- 
quaintances with  whom  she  might  keep 
house,  but  it  appeared  that  Helen  had  very 
few  acquaintances,  and  none  that  was 
available  for  such  a  co-partnership.  It 
was  an  evident  wrong  to  her  to  have  her 
keep  the  cottage  open  for  her  miserable 
brother's  sake,  and  finally  one  night  after 
Christmas  I  jumped  into  another  solution 
of  her  unfortunate  problem. 


Confessions  of  a  Foot. 


We  had  been  sleigh-riding.  It  was  the 
first  outing  Helen  had  allowed  herself  to 
take  since  the  mother's  death.  We  re- 
turned to  the  cottage  before  ten  o'clock, 
and  I  went  in  with  her.  She  looked  won- 
derfully pretty  after  the  brisk  ride.  Her 
cheeks  were  red  and  her  gray  eyes  shone. 
I  asked  her  to  play  for  me,  and  while  she 
sat  at  the  piano  I  stepped  up  behind  her 
and  put  my  arms  about  her  shoulders, 
clasping  my  hands  together  tightly.  She 
stopped  playing  and  her  hands  went  up  to 
mine  as  if  to  unclasp  them.  But  she  did 
not  unclasp  them,  but  let  her  own  hands 
rest  on  them,  and  her  head  dropped  for- 
ward a  little. 

"Helen,"  I  said,  hardly  able  to  raise  my 
voice  above  a  whisper,  "suppose  I  should 
tell  you  that  I  loved  you?" 


Helen.  129 

The  little  woman  didn't  speak  for  a  long 
minute.  Then  she  unclasped  my  hands  and 
gently  lifting  my  arms  from  about  her 
shoulders,  wheeled  slowly  about  on  the 
piano  stool  until  she  faced  me  standing  be- 
fore her.  She  had  not  released  my  hands 
from  hers,  and  she  looked  straight  up  into 
my  eyes. 

"Do  you  want  to  tell  me  that?"  she  asked, 
quite  soberly.' 

"To  tell  che  truth,  Helen,"  I  replied,  with 
a  little  laugh  at  her  unexpected  question, 
"I  feel  decidedly  like  it  to-night.  Miy  I 
tell  you?" 

"Do  you  love  me?"  she  returned,  still 
looking  straight  into  my  eyes. 

I  looked  down  into  the  pupils  with  their 
disc  of  gray,  and  then  I  raised  her  from 
the  piano  stool  and  led  her  to  a  big  easy 


130  Confessions  of  a  Foot. 

chair  across  the  room.  I  drew  one  of  the 
dignified  little  chairs  that  always  adorn 
the  humblest  parlor  to  the  side  of  hers  and 
sat  down  in  it. 

After  a  while  I  spoke  to  her. 

"Helen,"  said  I,  "you  and  I  are  exceeding- 
ly good  friends,  are  we  not?" 

"I  hope  so — you  have  been  very  kind  to 
me." 

"I  am  alone  in  the  world — you  are  alone 
in  the  world.  We  seem  to  like  each  other. 
I  have  sometimes  thought  I  loved  you.  I 
think  I  am  sure  of  it  to-night,  dear." 

Helen  didn't  speak.  She  turned  her  eyes 
from  me,  and  clasping  her  hands  in  her  lap 
allowed  her  head  to  fall  back  against  the 
heavy  upholstery  of  the  chair.  Then  her 
eyes  closed. 

"Are  you  sure  you  don't  pity  me  and 


Helen.  i3l 

think  that  is  love?"  she  said,  softly,  her 
eyes  opening  and  regarding  me  a  little  cu- 
riously, although  they  were  moist,  and 
something  like  a  tear-drop  glistened  on  the 
lower  lids. 

"To  be  honest  with  you,  then,  dear,"  I 
replied,  "if  you  will  have  it  so,  I  cannot  tell 
you.  I  don't  know.  I  do  know  that  love  is 
inspired  by  a  great  variety  of  emotions. 
I  have  thought  myself  in  love  before  now- 
most  fellows  do  before  they  reach  my  age." 

"And  what,  may  I  ask — what  emotions 
have  made  you  love  before?" 

I  looked  at  Helen  somewhat  startled, 
and  wondering  if  she  were  quizzing  me. 
She  certainly  was  not.  Her  voice  was  very 
gentle,  and  she  was  still  regarding  me  with 
half-opened  eyes.  There  was  Jiore  moist- 
ure in  them. 


132  Confessions  of  a  Fool. 

"Well,"  I  replied,  "I  once  loved  a  womau 
because  I  was  confident  she  loved  ine." 

"And  how  did  that  turn  out?" 

"I  don't  know  as  I  care  to  tell  even  you, 
Helen — not  now,  dear.  But  not  happily 
for  the  girl,  who  really  did  love  me — more 
than  I  ever  expect  to  be  loved  again." 

"Was  not  that  what  was  to  have  been 
expected?" 

"I  understand  it  now,  Helen,  but  I  was 
perhaps  too  young  a  fellow  to  discover  it 
then — in  time — until  it  was  too  late." 

"Then  you  were  married?"  said  Helen,  al- 
most in  a  whisper. 

"Yes." 

Helen's  eyes  closed  again  and  neither  of 
us  spoke  for  a  little  while.  Finally  Helen 
said,  her  eyes  still  closed. 

"And  how  about  the  next  one?" 


Helen.  133 

"Well,  there  wasn't  any  next  one  for  a 
long  time.  I  had  very  little  of  woman's  com- 
pany for  what  seemed  like  a  great  many 
years.  The  only  'next  one'  there  was  was  a 
beautiful  girl  whom  any  man  would  ad- 
mire, and  I  believe  most  any  man  fall  in 
love  with  without  much  trouble." 

"And  you  fell  in  love  with  her?" 

"I  suppose  I  did,  in  a  way.  I  really  didn't 
have  a  chance  to  find  out.  Besides,  I  had 
come  across  you,  Helen,  in  the  mean  time." 

Helen's  lips  trembled  into  a  smile,  a 
pretty  smile,  a  dainty  smile,  as  sweet  a 
smile  as  I  had  ever  seen.  Her  eyes  opened, 
her  face  flushed  slightly,  and  she  raised  her 
head  and  looked  again  straight  at  me.  My 
hands  were  grasping  the  arm  of  her  chair, 
and  she  placed  both  her  own  over  them. 

"Does   anybody — any  young   woman,   I 


134  Confessions  of  a  Fool. 

mean,  call  you  by  your  first  name?"  she  de- 
manded, suddenly. 

"Only  my  sister." 

"And  your  sister  is  nice,  isn't  she — if  she 
is  like  you?  And  there  is  no  one  else?" 

"Not  a  soul,  that  I  know  of  now."  I  for- 
got the  Widow,  but  she  does  not  count. 

"Then  I  am  going  to.  I'm  going  to  call 
you  'Dick.'  Now,  my  dear  Dick,"  said 
Helen,  suddenly,  "what  would  your  sister 
say  if  she  knew  you  were  here  with  me  and 
had  told  me  you  loved  me?" 

What  a  queer  question  that  seemed. 

"Why,  Helen,"  I  exclaimed,  "I'm  sure,  if 
she  knew  you,  she  could  but  be  pleased." 

"Is  she  older  or  younger  than  you?" 

"Older,  and  married." 

"And  thinks  a  great  deal  of  you,  of 
course.  Did  you  ever  speak  to  her  of  me?" 


Helen.  135 

I  was  quite  staggered  at  this,  and  could 
only  reply  with  ill-concealed  embarrass- 
ment that  I  had  never  thought  to  speak  of 
Helen  to  Kate. 

"Precisely,"  said  this  strangely  matter- 
of-fact  little  woman.  "Now,  don't  think  me 
unkind,  and  don't  reply  to  me  if  I  say  that 
you  did  not  regard  acquaintance  with  me 
as  of  sufficient  account  to  mention  it  to 
your  sister.  I  think  a  great  deal  of  you, 
Dick — how  could  I  do  otherwise  when  you 
have  been  so  good  to  me?  You  have  been 
a  real  friend,  and  real  friends  are  rare  for  a 
girl  in  my  position  to  find  among  men." 

"Don't  talk  like  that,  Helen,"  I  expostu- 
lated. "What  difference  does  it  make 
about  a  woman's  position  if  she  is  only  a 
good  woman?  No  man  could  be  otherwise 
than  good  to  you." 


136  Confessions  of  a  Fool. 

"It  makes  a  great  deal  of  difference— 
and  you  know  it  does.  Now  let  me  tell  you 
something.  I  have  worked  for  my  living 
ever  since  I  came  out  of  high  school — when 
my  father  died.  I  have  been  thrown  con- 
stantly among  men,  and  I  never  saw  a  man, 
before  I  met  you,  that  was  not  disposed  to 
take  advantage  of  a  return  of  his  friendli- 
ness. And  then  he  behaved  foolishly.  I 
learned,  early  enough,  that  a  woman  in 
business  must  confine  herself  strictly  to 
business  if  she  would  save  herself  from  an- 
noyance from  her  fellows,  the  men,  who 
were  in  business.  I  read  a  great  deal  about 
the  freedom  of  the  field  of  professions  and 
business  open  to  women,  but  I  found  out 
that  if  a  woman,  a  young  and  fairly  attract- 
ive woman,  is  going  to  pursue  them,  she 
must  debar  herself  from  those  little  atteii- 


Helen.  137 

tions  which  a  girl  likes  to  receive  from  men, 
when  they  are  offered  by  men  in  her  bus- 
iness circle  or  who  enter  it  to  seek  her. 
Since  I  have  known  you  I  have  felt  per- 
fectly free  with  you — always  at  ease  and 
ready  to  go  with  you  anywhere.  I  have 
had  more  pleasant  hours  with  you  than  I 
ever  had  with  any  one  in  all  my  life.  You 
have  never  offered  to  kiss  me — you  have 
never  been  foolish.  When  the  occasion 
came  that  I  needed  you  for  something  be- 
side a  good  time  you  came  to  me;  and,  if 
I  had  not  known  before  how  real  a  friend 
you  were,  I  discovered  it  then.  I  respect 
you  and  I  like  you,  and  I  am  glad  you  like 
me — I  know  you  do,  or  you  would  not  have 
been  so  kind  to  me  in  so  many  ways." 

Helen's  eyes  were  filled  with  tears,  now, 
and  as  she  stopped  speaking  she  bent  over 


138  Confessions  of  a  Fool. 

and  lier  head  fell  forward  on  her  hands, 
clasping  mine  on  the  arm  of  the  chair.  I 
raised  my  disengaged  hand  and  stroked 
her  hair.  I  wanted  to  kiss  her  hair. 

"Well,  Helen,"  said  I,  after  a  while,  "what 
does  all  this  amount  to,  dear?  Do  you 
mean  that  it  is  foolish  for  me  to  tell  you 
that  I  love  you?  That  certainly  isn't  kind 
to  me,  Helen." 

"I  don't  know  whether  it  is  or  not,"  re- 
sponded the  girl,  raising  her  head  and  look- 
ing at  me  intently.  "I  don't  know  whether 
it  is  foolish  or  not.  I  know  you  are  im- 
petuous. I  know  you  are  the  kind  of  a  man 
who  wouldn't  do  a  wrong  thing,  or  a  fool- 
ish thing,  if  you  took  time  to  consider  it — 
but  you  might  do  a  great  many  such  be- 
cause you  would  not  take  time  to  consider. 
You  remember  when  you  first  took  me 


Helen.  139 

home  from  that  ball — when  you  threw  that 
fellow  into  the  street.  To  tell  the  truth,  I 
was  more  afraid  of  you,  for  a  moment,  than 
I  was  of  the  fellow  you  threw  into  the 
street.  I  could  have  taken  care  of  the  sit- 
uation unaided.  But  I  liked  yon  when  you 
stepped  up  to  protect  me.  I  had  not  for  a 
long  time  felt  the  need  of  a  protector,  or 
ever  looked  for  one.  It  was  pleasant  to 
have  one,  and  I  was  afraid,  before  we 
parted,  you  would  do  or  say  something 
foolish  to  spoil  it  all.  And  when  you  did 
not,  I  liked  it  and  liked  you  and  wanted  to 
see  you  again,"  and  Helen  laughed  out 
loud  as  if  she  were  happy. 

I  laughed,  too,  at  the  recollection  of  the 
incident.  Then  I  said: 

"And  how  about  now,  dear?" 

"Well,"  returned  Helen,  speaking  very 


140  Confessions  of  a  Fool. 

slowly,  "I  don't  know  how  to  say  it  to  you, 
but  I  wish  you  wouldn't  speak  any  more 
about  it — not  to-night,  at  least.  Believe 
me,  I  am  thinking  of  you — of  your  inter- 
ests  " 

"But  don't  do  it,  Helen!"  I  interrupted. 
;<I  am  perfectly  able  to  take  care  of  myself. 
I  know  exactly  what  I  am  about.  If  a  man 
loves  a  woman  why  shouldn't  he  be  per- 
mitted to  tell  her  so?  If  she  is  a  good 
woman  her  love  is  an  honor  to  him." 

"That  is  very  nice  to  say,"  returned 
Helen,  shaking  her  head  and  smiling  at  me. 
"The  novel  writers  always  put  it  that  way, 
Dick.  But  you  know,  'way  down  deep,  that 
there  are  other  considerations — and,"  with 
a  mischievous  laugh,  "I'm  not  at  all  certain 
that  men  know  what  they  are  about  even 
when  they  think  they  do." 


Helen.  141 

I  had  nothing  to  say  to  that,  and  after  a 
pause,  Helen  spoke  again: 

"Now  let  me  ask  you  to  do  something 
more  for  me."  And  the  girl  raised  herself 
erect  and  took  her  hands  from  off  mine. 
"Please  forget  that  you  have  told  me  that 
you  loved  me.  Please  remember,  if  you  wish 
it,  that  you  have  asked  me  if  you  might 
love  me.  I  know  you  like  me,  and  I  am 
afraid  you  pity  me.  Xow,  I  want  you  to 
think  things  over — a  lot  of  things.  I  want 
you  to  tell  your  sister  about  me.  I  should 
like  to  meet  your  sister.  Call  on  me  when 
you  please  as  you  have  always  done.  In- 
vite me  to  ride  or  to  walk  with  you,  or  to 
the  theater,  whenever  it  will  be  pleasant 
for  you  to  have  me  with  you.  I  have  ar- 
ranged to  rent  the  cottage  to  a  nice  family 
and  to  board  with  them,  and  you  may  come 


Confessions  of  a  Fool. 


here  as  often  as  you  wish  to.  Now,"  and 
Helen  drew  a  little  watch  fr-om  her  waist, 
"you  see  it  is  after  eleven  o'clock.  You 
must  be  going.  But  before  you  go,  I  will 
play  and  sing  one  song  for  you." 

Helen  rose  quickly  from  her  chair.  I 
rose,  too,  and  seized  both  her  hands  in 
mine.  Then  I  bent  slowly  and  kissed  her 
on  the  cheek.  She  laughed  a  sweet,  low 
laugh,  with  something  like  sadness  in  it. 

"Helen,"  said  I,  "you  are  the  dearest  girl 
in  the  world." 

She  looked  smilingly  at  me,  but  made  no 
answer. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

GORTON   BOWIE. 

"You  have  overdrawn  your  account  by 
nearly  a  thousand  dollars,  sir.  I  would 
suggest  that  you  refrain  from  drawing  any 
more." 

I  looked  at  Gorton  Bowie  with  some  dis- 
may. I  needed  money — not  much,  but 
enough  to  save  my  margins.  They  had  all 
but  been  wiped  out  by  the  day's  operations, 
and  my  brokers  assured  me  that  my  stocks 
would  be  pretty  sure  to  drop  another  half- 
point  on  the  morrow. 

"What    do   you    mean,    Bowie?"   I    de- 
ws 


144  Confessions  of  a  Fool. 

inauded.  "That  I  can't  take  money  from 
iny  own  safe?" 

"I  mean  this,  sir '  Gorton  Bowie  al- 
ways addressed  me  as  "sir,"  he  had  never 
called  me  by  my  Christian  name,  and  only 
rarely  by  my  surname;  then  with  a  "Mr." 
before  it.  I  know  of  no  other  acquaint- 
ance, of  many  months'  standing,  who  does 
not  know  me  with  the  easy  familiarity  of 
"Dick" — "I  only  mean  this,  sir;  that  there 
aren't  sufficient  funds  in  the  drawer  to  sup- 
ply you,  and  I  must  respectfully  decline  to 
sign  a  check." 

"But,  Bowie,"  I  expostulated.  "What 
does  this  mean?" 

"Nothing  more  than  what  I  say,  sir.  We 
have  no  money  to  spare  and  you  are  al- 
ready overdrawn." 

"Xo  money  to  spare!     Shall  we  not  be 


Gorton  Bowie.  145 


able  to  declare  a  dividend  at  the  annual 
meeting  day  after  to-morrow?" 

"We  certainly  shall  not  be  able  to.  I 
must  remind  you  that  business  has  been 
far  from  healthy  the  past  six  months." 

"Well,  you  have  been  managing  it,"  I  re- 
torted, as  a  vent  to  my  angry  feelings. 

"Exactly — and  if  I  had  not  managed  it, 
it  would  have  been  worse,"  returned  Bowie, 
calmly  eyeing  me. 

"That's  right,  Bowie,  that's  right,"  I  ac- 
knowledged, relenting  a  little.  "I  have 
thrown  a  pretty  heavy  burden  on  you  the 
past  year  or  two.  But  I  don't  take  kindly 
to  being  held  up  in  this  way — and  I  don't 
feel  disposed  to  transfer  any  more  of  my 
stock  to  you  and  borrow  money.  But  I 
must  have  funds,  and  I  must  have  them  by 
to-morrow  moming,  the  first  thing." 


146  Confessions  of  a  Fool 

"You  can't  have  them  out  of  this  bus- 
iness, sir,"  Bowie  remarked,  with  calm  de- 
cision. 

"I  can't  have  them!"  I  repeated  after 
him,  astonished  at  the  flatness  of  his  re- 
fusal. "Do  you  mean  to  say  I  can't  have 
them?" 

"That  is  exactly  what  I  mean,  sir." 
Bowie  was  appallingly  calm  and  precise. 
He  always  is.  "You  forget,  sir,  that  I  own 
a  majority  of  this  stock." 

I  felt  a  strange  coldness  pass  all  over  me 
as  if  I  had  suddenly  plunged  into  a  needle 
bath  that  ran  ice  water.  For  a  moment  I 
could  not  find  my  voice. 

Forget  it!  I  had  never  thought  of  it! 
And  yet  I  knew  it  well  enough — knew  that 
I  had  borrowed  money  from  Bowie  and  had 
given  him  my  stock  as  collateral  until  he 


Gorton  Bowie. 


had  in  his  possession  nearly  two-thirds  of 
all  the  stock  of  the  concern,  properly  trans- 
ferred and  all  his  as  far  as  the  papers 
showed. 

"But  that  stock  is  mine — when  I  choose 
to  buy  it  back,"  I  finally  gasped. 

"Precisely — when  you  choose  to  buy  it 

back,"     responded     Bowie,     deliberately. 

"When  you  do  choose  to  buy  it  back,  it 

will  be  time  to  talk  about  it.    It  is  in  my 

possession  now  and  it  is  mine." 

"But — but—  "  I  ejaculated,  hardly  know- 
ing how  to  face  the  situation,  "you  do  not 
propose  to — to — use  it — and  against  me?" 

"What  I  propose  to  do  will  appear  at  the 
proper  time,"  said  Bowie,  still  unflinching- 
ly calm.  "I  don't  care  to  loan  you  any  more 
money  on  any  more  of  your  stock,  though. 
I  have  quite  enough  of  it  now,"  and  a  dis* 


148  Confessions  of  a  Fool. 

agreeable  smile  played  at  the  corners  of 
his  thin  lips. 

I  looked  hard  at  him  for  a  moment.  His 
face  was  very  white,  his  lips  tightly  com- 
pressed. He  looked  mean  and  cowardly— 
but  nervy.  I  had  it  in  my  mind  to  seize 
him  by  the  throat  and  wring  his  neck. 

"Gorton  Bowie,"  I  exclaimed,  at  last.  "I 
believe  you  are  planning  to  play  me  a  dirty 
trick." 

Bowie  merely  bowed  his  head  exasperat- 
ingly,  as  if  waiting  for  me  to  say  more  that 
was  abusive. 

"If  you  do,"  I  cried,  my  hands  clinching, 
"I  will  make  you  suffer  for  it.  You  are  a 
miserable  dog.  I  have  placed  you  where 
you  are  and  made  you  what  you  are.  You 
can  keep  the  stock  and  take  this  business 
from  me,  but,  by  God,  I'll  thrash  you  till 


Gorton   Bowie.  149 


you  won't  Ik  for  a  week  if  you  play  with 
me  this  way." 

Gorton  Bowie  looked  me  squarely  in  the 
eye  and  then  his  eyes  dropped  and  he 
turned  to  his  desk.  It  was  early  evening 
and  not  a  soul  was  in  the  place  but  we 
two.  The  office  door  was  closed.  In  my 
rising  anger  I  itched  to  jump  upon  him.  Ho 
could  have  had  the  balance  of  my  interest 
for  that  satisfaction.  I  glared  at  him  and 
probably  looked  to  him  as  much  like  a  wild 
beast  as  I  felt. 

"I  propose  to  be  able  to  defend  myself,'* 
said  Bowie,  with  a  little  wavering  of  his 
voice. 

"What  do  you  mean  by  that?"  I  de- 
manded, stepping  nearer  to  him. 

Tie  jumped  back  with  an  expression  of 
fear  in  his  thin  face,  as  if  he  thought  I  was 


150  Confessions  of  a  Fool. 

preparing  to  strike  him.  I  had  no  such  in- 
tention, though  I  was  angry  enough  to  do 
it,  and  I  probably  showed  it.  lie  reached 
his  arm  back,  opened  a  drawer  in  his  desk, 
and,  the  next  thing  I  knew,  I  saw  the 
nickel  of  a  revolver  flashing  in  his  hand. 

In  the  state  of  mind  I  was  in  that  gleam- 
ing nickel  was  enough  to  knock  the  last  bit 
of  self-control  out  of  my  head.  I  rushed  at 
him  and  made  a  kick  at  his  hand  with  my 
right  foot.  It  was  a  trick  I  had  learned 
from  a  French  boxer  in  Paris.  My  foot 
struck  his  knuckles  with  a  thump.  He  gave 
a  cry  of  pain  and  the  revolver  went  flying 
into  the  air,  landing  on  a  table  halfway 
across  the  room. 

I  stepped  to  the  table,  and  picking  the 
weapon  up,  handed  it  back  to  him.  My 
rage  had  begun  to  cool. 


Gorton   Bowie.  151 


"There!"  I  cried.  "Put  that  thing  away. 
You  are  too  mean  to  strike.  But  if  you 
ever  attempt  that  sort  of  a  trick  again  I'll 
thrash  you  till  you  can't  walk." 

I  recalled  to  myself  the  remark  of  Ros- 
coe  Conkling  on  a  memorable  occasion, 
when  he  pointed  out  that  while  a  man 
should  be  careful  in  his  associates,  he 
should  be  choice  in  his  fighting.  And  I  re- 
garded Bowie,  as  he  put  back  the  revolver 
in  the  drawer,  with  a  feeling  of  satisfaction 
that  I  had  refrained  from  half -killing  him. 

Bowie  crossed  the  room  and  proceeded 
to  put  on  his  hat  and  overcoat.  He  closed 
his  desk,  and  saying  "Good-night"  without 
looking  at  me  again,  left  the  office. 

I  heard  him  pass  down  the  stairs  and 
out  of  the  building,  and  then  I  ant  down  at 
mv  own  desk  and  began  to  think. 


152  Confessions  of  a  Fool. 


My  thoughts  are  not  worth  recording, 
even  for  my  own  future  reference.  They 
were  dismal — pitiable. 

Once  I  spoke  out  loud.    I  said: 
"Dick,  old  man,  you  have  been  a  fool !" 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

THE   RELIEF   OF  CONFESSION. 

• 

"Dick!"  exclaimed  my  sister,  a  few  days 
after  the  disturbing  scene  recorded  in  iny 
last  memoranda.  "What  was  the  meaning 
of  that  paragraph  I  saw  in  the  paper  yes- 
terday morning?" 

She  was  advancing  into  the  reception 
room  to  greet  me.  Her  right  hand  was  ex- 
tended, and  I  took  it  and  held  on  to  it. 

I  knew  well  enough  to  what  particular 
paragraph  she  referred.  It  was  a  brief  no- 
tice to  the  effect  that  the  management  of 
the  old  house  which  bore  my  father's  name 
in  its  corporate  title  had  undergone  a 
change 'by  the  retirement  of  the  senior  part- 

153 


154  Confessions  of  a  Foot. 

ner — myself.  It  stated  further  that  the 
business  would  be  carried  on  under  the 
same  name,  but  that  Mr.  Gorton  Bowie,  its 
treasurer  since  the  company  was  organ- 
ized, had  succeeded  to  the  presidency,  still 
holding  his  former  office,  and  would  be  the 
controlling  power  and  active  manager  of 
the  concern  in  the  future. 

"It  means  just  what  it  says,  Kate,"  I  re- 
plied. "I  have  sold  out  to  Bowie." 

"Sold  out  to  Bowie!"  cried  my  sister. 
"What  do  you  mean?  Do  you  mean  to  tell 
me  that  you  have  sold  out  your  interest  in 
our  father's  business?" 

"Well,  no,  not  sold  it  out  entirely.  But 
enough  of  it  to  place  the  control  in  other 
hands.  I  still  own  some  stock  there,  but 
shall  take  no  active  part  in  the  concern  in 
the  future." 


The  Relief  of  Confession.  155 

Kate  looked  stern,  and  her  pretty  mouth 
was  closed  tightly.  She  gazed  so  hard  at 
me  that  despite  myself  I  could  not  look 
back  at  her. 

"Dick,"  she  said,  in  a  hard  voice,  "you 
have  done  some  wrong.  I  know  you  have. 
Something  has  happened  that  you  have 
never  told  me  about." 

I  made  no  response. 

"Dick,"  she  went  on,  "you  must  tell  me. 
I  must  know.  What  is  the  matter — a  man 
of  your  years  doesn't  'retire  from  business,' 
from  a  good  business,  unless  there  is  an  ex- 
traordinary reason  for  it.  What  is  the  mat- 
ter? Has  the  business  run  down?" 

"Xo — the  business  is  all  right,  I  think. 
But  I  have  run  down,"  I  cried  out  desper- 
ately. "I  suppose  I  have  run  down,  Kate." 

"Yon  suppose  you  have?"  echoed  my  sis- 


156  Confessions  of  a  Fool. 

ter,  her  voice  sounding  very  harsh  and  even 
disagreeable.  "What  do  you  mean  by  that, 
Dick?" 

I  looked  down  at  her  hand,  still  held  in 
mine,  pushed  the  rings  around  her  fingers, 
and  then,  feeling  like  a  boy  who  expects  to 
get  a  spanking  promptly  on  confession, 
looked  up  at  her  and  said : 

"Kate,  to  be  honest,  I  suppose  I  am 
about  ruined  in  a  business  way." 

There  was  a  queer  sound  in  the  woman's 
throat.  She  turned  very  white,  then  red 
again.  Her  eyes  flashed,  her  lips  twitched. 
And  then,  the  eyes  filled  with  tears.  She 
spoke  softly,  very  softly: 

"Dick,  my  brother,  what  has  brought 
this  about?" 

I  had  no  mind  to  keep  anything  back.  I 
wanted  a  confidante.  I  was  ashamed  to 


The  Relief  of  Confession.  157 


make  use  of  one.  I  did  not  want  Helen  to 
know,  sweet  as  she  is.  I  would  tell  my  sis- 
ter. 

"Speculation,  I  suppose,  Kate,"  I  said, 
"outside  investments,  I  prefer  to  call  it. 
That  is  at  the  bottom  of  it.  I  have  lost  a 
great  deal  of  money  the  past  eighteen 
months.  Have  lost  more  than  I  have  had  to 
lose.  Now  I've  lost  my  business.  I  have 
nothing  left — except  some  stock  in  the  com- 
pany, which  will  give  me  an  income  ac- 
cording to  the  amount  of  profits.  Not 
enough  to  live  on — for  me  to  live  on." 

We  sat  down  together  on  the  lounge  and 
I  told  her  the  wrhole  wretched  story.  I  had 
not  comprehended  how  wretched  a  story  it 
was  until  this  moment  when  I  began  to  put 
it  into  words. 

"But,    Dick,"    Kate    interrupted,    once, 


Confessions  of  a  Foot. 


"was  there  no  one  to  help  you  out  of  such 
a  situation — could  you  not  have  borrowed 
money  to  have  bought  back  that  stock?" 

"Well,  Kate,"  I  said,  "I  might  have  done 
it,  though  it  was  pretty  late  to  try  before 
I  realized  how  near  to  the  brink  I  was. 
And,  Kate,  my  intimates  are  not  of  the 
class  of  men  who  have  much  money — to 
loan.  They  are  too  good  fellows  to  have 
any  spare  cash  on  hand,"  and  I  laughed. 

"Good  fellows  will  ruin  you,"  said  my  sis- 
ter. "Good  fellows  ruin  themselves.  You 
have  ruined  yourself.  But  I  should  think 
there  would  have  been  business  acquaint- 
ances who  could  have  been  approached." 

"Maybe  so,  but  I  am  afraid  that  my  cred- 
it was  not  so  good  among  business  ac- 
quaintances as  it  is  among  the  good  fellows 
who  had  no  money  to  lend  me." 


Tlie  Relief  of  Confession.  159 

"You  might  have  asked  me,  Dick,"  said 
my  sister,  after  a  pause.  "I  could  have  se- 
cured enough  from  my  own  funds  to  have 
bought  back  your  stock." 

"Yes,  Kate,  I  know  you  would  wipe  out 
your  box  at  the  deposit  company  for  me, 
but  nothing  in  my  character  or  past  career 
justifies  me  in  calling  upon  my  dear  sister 
to  bank  anything  on  my  future." 

"Is  it  too  late  to  recover  your  interest  in 
the  business?"  she  asked,  after  the  story 
was  all  told. 

"I  suppose  not — but  it  calls  for  more 
money  than  I  am  likely  to  see  for  some 
time.  I  think  I  could  compel  Bowie  to  sell 
me  back  my  stock — or  lick  him,"  I  added, 
with  a  laugh,  for  I  had  got  over  being  ugly 
with  Bowie,  or  anybody  else— even  with 
myself. 


160  Confessions  of  a  Fool. 

Kate  had  nothing  more  to  say,  and  I  was 
glad  to  drop  the  subject.  Marberry  joined 
us  later  and  I  caught  him  eyeing  me  cur- 
iously every  now  and  then  during  the  even- 
ing over  our  game  of  cribbage.  I  beat  him 
three  rubbers  for  a  small  consideration  and 
went  to  my  lodgings  feeling  better. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

THE  FOOL. 

I  don't  know  when  it  began,  but  along  in 
March  I  found  myself  in  a  terribly  gloomy 
condition.  One  day  it  came  upon  me  like  a 
revelation  that  I  was  unable,  financially, 
to  continue  the  kind  of  life  I  had  been  ac- 
customed to.  It  was  difficult  to  realize  that 
my  funds  were  reduced  to  a  state  that  lim- 
ited what  I  considered  my  reasonable 
wants.  I  had  never  kept  such  a  thing  as 
an  account  of  .personal  expenditures,  and 
I  never  really  knew  how  big  they  were, 
weekly,  monthly  or  annually.  Though  I 
had  occasionally  experienced  the  necessity 

181 


162  Confessions  of  a  Fool. 


of  temporarily  cutting  them,  down,  over- 
due bills  being  my  barometer.  The  cutting 
off  of  a  large  part  of  my  income  had  been 
contemporaneous  with  the  presentation  of 
a  number  of  bills  which  I  could  not  meet, 
but  it  was  some  time  before  I  realized  that 
I  could  not  look  ahead  and  see  any  funds 
coming  out  of  the  future  with  which  to 
meet  them,  and  that,  meanwhile,  other  ob- 
ligations were  growing  up  like  rank  weeds. 
I  had  seen  very  little  of  Helen.  I  had 
never  spoken  of  her  to  Kate.  By  uncon- 
scious steps  I  had  come  to  believe  that  my 
career  was  ended,  and  that  plans  for  my  fut- 
ure welfare  or  happiness  must  all  be  declar- 
ed off.  I  called  occasionally  at  the  Doctor's 
home,  but  spent  most  of  my  time  at  the 
clubs — and  that  was  expensive.  My  real 
gloom  and  depression  began  when  I 


The  Fool  163 

thought  I  had  discovered  that  not  only  was 
iny  career  ended,  but  that  it  was  getting 
every  day  further  behindhand — that  debts 
were  piling  up,  and  besides  that  I  was  feel- 
ing, physically,  very  much  out  of  form. 
After  a  time  I  had  spells  of  pitying  myself, 
and  that  was  destructive.  The  thought  of 
pitying  myself  made  me  feel  vicious. 

It  was  after  one  of  these  moods  that  I 
bought  a  revolver — a  heavy,  compact,  short- 
muzzled  weapon.  I  don't  think  I  realized 
what  I  bought  it  for,  and  I  didn't  want  to 
think  of  it.  Perhaps  the  sight  of  that  pis- 
tol of  Bowie's  was  responsible  for  the  idea, 
I  placed  the  weapon  in  a  drawer  of  my 
dressing-case — another  drawer  from  the 
one  in  which  I  kept  the  photograph  of  a 
sweet,  sad  face,  that  every  night,  now,  I 
had  come  to  look  at. 


164  Confessions  of  a  Fool. 


It  was  after  a  particularly  gloomy  talk 
with  sympathetic  Kate,  one  evening,  that  I 
returned  to  my  rooms  in  an  extraordinarily 
unenviable  frame  of  mind — something  as 
nearly  akin  to  anguish  as  I  had  ever 
known.  Kate  had  declared  that  I  needed 
occupation.  I  had  expressed  to  her  how 
strange  it  seemed  that  the  occupations  for 
killing  time,  which  I  had  enjoyed  when 
I  had  something  better  to  attend  to 
and  no  time  to  kill,  palled  upon  me 
now  that  I  had  nothing  else  to  do. 
I  had  sold  my  horse  and  the  modest  rigs  in 
my  stable  that  day  and  discharged  the  man 
that  took  care  of  them.  I  sat  down  in  my 
chamber  by  the  open  fireplace  and  wished 
that  I  was  dead. 

I  don't  know  what  time  it  was  when  I 
rose  from  the  chair,  walked  over  to  the 


The  Fool  165 

dressing-case  and  opened  the  drawer 
wherein  133*  the  short-muzzled  revolver.  It 
had  five  chambers  a-nd  a  'big  cartridge 
faced  me  from  each  of  the  exposed  cham- 
bers as  I  picked  it  up.  I  had  had  the 
weapon  loaded  when  I  bought  it  and  had 
returned  the  broken  box  of  leads  to  the 
dealer. 

I  turned  the  ugly  thing  in  my  hand  and 
regarded  it  until  it  seemed  to  look  less 
ugly,  less  fearful.  Indeed,  after  a  few 
moments  it  began  to  have  a  fascination  for 
me,  to  be  really  attractive. 

Then  I  put  it  down  on  top  of  the  dressing- 
case  and  removed  my  jacket  and  vest.  I 
placed  my  left  hand  over  my  heart  and 
moved  my  little  finger  about  until  I  could 
feel  my  heart  beating  directly  beneath  it. 
I  went  back  to  the  dressing-case,  picked  up 


166  Confessions  of  a  Foot. 

the  revolver  and  felt  for  that  heartbeat 
again  with  my  left  hand.  The  starched 
bosom  of  my  shirt  was  in  the  way  and  I 
crushed  it  to  one  side.  I  found  the  spot, 
though  it  seemed  as  if  the  heart  had  well- 
nigh  stopped  beating.  I  worked  the  big 
mouth  of  the  revolver  under  the  tip  of  the 
finger  over  my  heart  and  clinched  the  bar- 
rel in  my  hand  to  steady  it. 

I  looked  all  about  the  room.  My  eyes 
rested  for  a  moment  on  the  front  of  the 
dressing-case  drawer  in  which  lay  the  pho- 
tograph of  that  sweet,  sad  face.  Helen's 
picture  looked  out  at  me  from  its  frame  on 
top  of  the  dressing-case  and  I  quickly 
turned  my  eyes  from  it.  I  saw  in  that 
glance  around  the  room  everything  there 
was  in  it,  the  pictures,  the  books,  the  col- 
lege diploma,  the  bits  of  bric-a-brac,  my 


The  Fool  167 

comfortable  old  slippers,  a  burnt  match  011 
the  rug  in  front  of  the  fireplace — every- 
thing. I  let  the  revolver  drop  from  my 
breast  and  then  shut  off  the  lights  blazing 
from  the  gas  brackets. 

With  the  revolver  clinched  tightly  in  my 
right  hand  I  made  my  way  to  the  bed  and 
lay  down  upon  it.  I  felt  for  the  heart -beat 
again  with  the  fingers  of  my  left  hand. 


CHAPTER  XVIH. 

AN  INTERRUPTION. 

The  quick  thr-r-r-ink  of  an  electric  bell 
came  to  my  ears.  There  was  somebody  at 
the  door.  I  felt  a  sudden  glow  all  over  me. 
Then  beads  of  perspiration  broke  out  and 
face  and  body  were  wet.  I  raised  myself 
half  up  from  the  bed,  the  revolver  still  in 
my  hand.  I  heard  the  housekeeper  go 
through  the  hall  down-stairs.  I  heard  a 
step  on  the  stairs.  I  looked  down  at  the 
revolver  and  shuddered.  Ugh!  what  an 
ugly  thing  it  was  shining  in  the  dark ! 

A  knock  on  the  door,  a  gentle  tap — I 
threw  the  revolver  across  the  room  and  it 


An  Interruption.  159 


fell  against  something  with  an  ugly  bang 
and  dropped  with  a  muffled  sound  on  a  rug. 
I  forgot  that  the  room  was  dark,  save  for 
the  glowing  logs  on  the  hearth,  and  I  called 
"Come  in!" 

I  saw  a  dim  figure  at  the  threshold — a 
woman's  figure. 

"Kate  I"  I  cried.  And  I  leaped  from  the 
bed  and  seizing  her  in  my  arms  I  dropped 
my  head  on  her  shoulder  and  burst  into 
tears. 

"Why,  Dick!"  exclaimed  my  sister. 
"Why,  Dick!  What  is  the  matter?  Were 
you  asleep?  Light  the  gas.  You  are 
trembling  like  a  leaf — and  crying.  Dick! 
Dick!"  her  voice  sounding  full  of  fear. 
"What  has  happened.  Light  the  gas  and 
let  me  see  you!" 

I  released  her  quickly  and  turned  for  a 


Confessions  of  a  Fool. 


match.  Then  I  thought  of  the  revolver  ly- 
ing on  the  floor — somewhere,  I  didn't  know 
where. 

"No,  no,  Kate!"  I  cried.  "Don't  have  the 
gas  lighted.  We  can  sit  here  by  the  fire, 
dear.  I  will  start  it  up.  I  had  a  night- 
mare, I  think — a  nightmare!  I  threw  my- 
self on  the  bed — I  was  not  asleep — only 
the  nightmare,"  I  repeated,  my  voice  chok- 
ing with  the  words.  "Come,  sit  up  by  the 
fire.  What  on  earth  brings  you  here?  I 
will  start  up  the  fire,"  and  I  proceeded  to 
poke  it  and  threw  on  a  fresh  log  until  it 
crackled  into  a  blaze  which  brought  my 
sister's  face  out  clear — and  mine,  too. 

"Why,  Dick,"  she  cried;  "you  are  as 
white  as  a  ghost!"  I  thought  her  voice  be- 
trayed an  instinctive  horror. 

"Don't  say  a  word  to  me,  sister,"  I  ut- 


An  Interruption. 


tered,  with  a  sort  of  a  gasp.  "Don't  ask  me 
anything.  Pm  sick.  Pm  not  well  —  and  the 
dream  was  awful.  Sit  down,  dear.  Why 
did  you  come  here?"  and  of  a  sudden  I  felt 
almost  irritated  at  her  coming. 

She  told  me,  speaking  rapidly,  as  if  she 
wanted  to  be  through  with  it  to  ask  more 
of  me.  She  said  that  she  could  not  sleep 
without  seeing  me.  She  had  a  bundle  with 
her  which  she  told  me  contained  a  small 
fortune  in  negotiable  securities,  and  she 
compelled  me  to  take  them  from  her. 

"I  have  had  them  at  the  house  for  two 
days,"  she  said.  "You  must  take  them. 
You  must  get  into  business  —  your  old  bus- 
iness if  you  can,  but  some  business.  You 
must  not  go  on  as  you  are.  If  there  isn't 
enough  there  I  have  property  that  I  can 
sell.  You  told  me  this  would  be  enough  to 


172  Confessions  of  a  Fool. 

buy  back  the  stock  in  your  business.  You 
must  not  refuse  me." 

"But,  Kate,"  I  put  in,  "you  don't  know 
what  you  are  doing.  This  is  your  inherit- 
ance. It  belongs  to  you.  You  must  not 
surrender  it — both  for  your  sake  and  your 
husband's;  you  must  not  sacrifice  it." 

"I  may  do  as  I  please,"  declared  niy  sis- 
ter, stamping  her  foot.  "I  have  talked  it 
over  with  Edward,  and  he  urged  me  to  do 
it — he  did,  really,  Dick.  We  have  enough, 
and  we  have  no  children,  Dick,"  and  my  sis- 
ter's voice  faltered.  "I  have  no  one  but  you, 
Dick — no  one  who  is  like  a  child  to  me  but 
you,  my  little  brother.  I  want  you  to  begin 
over  again.  I  know  you  cannot  do  it  with- 
out money.  And  you  must  do  it." 

"And  a  pretty  job  I'm,  likely  to  make  of 
it!"  I  declared,  bitterly. 


An  Interruption.  173 


"I  do  not  want  you  to  lose  it.  I  doii't 
mean  for  my  sake,  but  for  your  own.  Yet  I 
would  hold  you  strictly  responsible  for  it. 
I  think  you  are  the  kind  of  a  man  who 
might  take  care  of  somebody  else's  money 
better  than  you  do  of  your  own.  There  is 
an  element  of  honor  in  it,  and  I  think  you 
•have  honor." 

Honor!  I  like  to  think  I  have  it.  I  was 
never  what  the  world  calls  dishonest. 

"Kate,"  said  I,  after  a  pause.  "I  want 
you  to  do  me  a  real  favor.  I  want  you  to 
take  these  papers  back  home  with  you.  I 
will  come  around  to  the  house  in  a  day  or 
two  and  talk  it  over  with  yon.  Meanwhile, 
I  will  consider  it  very  seriously,  and  if,  after 
all,  you  insist,  I  promise  you  to  do  what 
you  tell  me  if  I  can  possibly  see  my  way 
clear  to  do  it  with  any  sort  of  justice." 


174  Confessions  of  a  Fool. 

"Don't  talk  about  justice!"  cried  Kate. 
"I  could  not  rest  another  night  without 
seeing  you,  and  making  you  let  me  help 
you.  I  ought  to  have  insisted  upon  it  be- 
fore. But  I  have  only  lately  come  to  know 
what  a  condition  you  were  in.  I  can't  let 
you  make  a  wreck  of  yourself,  and  I'm 
afraid  you  cannot  stand  adversity  as  a 
strong  man  ought  to." 

I  thought  of  the  revolver  lying  on  the 
floor  somewhere. 

"Kate,"  said  I,  "you  must  go  back  home. 
I  must  get  into  bed.  I  am  tired  out — aw- 
fully tired.  I  will  put  on  my  coat  and  go 
home  with  you." 

She  protested  at  this.  She  had  come  in 
Marberry's  spyder,  and  the  coachman  was 
with  her. 

So  I  kissed  her  good-night  and  saw  her 


Ail  Interruption.  175 


down  the  front  steps  and  into  the  jaunty 
spyder.  Then  I  went  back  to  my  room, 
closed  and  locked  the  door. 

I  trembled  as  I  crossed  the  room  to 
strike  a  match  and  light  the  gas.  I  looked 
about  me  with  a  strange  feeling  of  fear  at 
what  I  should  see.  There  lay  the  revolver 
on  the  heavy  rug  in  front  of  the  dressing- 
case. 

I  picked  it  up — almost  afraid  to  touch  it. 
I  threw  clown  the  barrel  and  drew  out  the 
exposed  cartridges,  placing  them  in  a  cor- 
ner of  a  drawer.  Then  I  opened  a  window 
and  hurled  the  weapon  as  far  as  I  could 
throw  it.  I  heard  it  come  down  with  a 
clank  upon  the  pavement  'way  up  the 
street. 

I  threw  myself  on  the  bed  and  buried 
my  face  in  the  pillow. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

'NIGHT  AND  DAY. 

When  I  awoke  it  was  broad  daylight. 
The  gas  flame  was  burning.  The  logs  on 
the  hearth  were  reduced  to  smouldering 
embers.  I  was  shivering  from  cold. 

I  raised  myself  up  from  the  bed.  My 
feet  were  numb  and  my  shoes  felt  like  cases 
of  lead  about  them. 

I  looked  down  at  my  shirt — at  the 
starched  bosom  crushed  and  rumpled  on 
the  left  side. 

My  head  was  aching  terrifically.  My 
very  bones  seemed  to  ache.  When  I  at- 
tempted to  step  on  the  floor  my  legs  were 
too  weak  to  support  me. 

176 


Night  and  Day.  177 

I  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  the  bed  and 
rubbed  my  hands  over  my  forehead  and 
through  my  hair.  My  hair  seemed  dry  and 
hot.  There  was  an  unpleasant  taste  in  my 
mouth  and  my  tongue  felt  thick  and  hot. 
My  throat  resisted  the  effort  to  swallow. 

I  worked  off  my  shoes  and  began  to  dis- 
robe. It  was  a  painful  operation.  My  fin- 
gers were  weak  and  sore.  I  found  my  pa- 
jamas lying  over  the  footboard  where  the 
housemaid  had  placed  them  the  evening  be- 
fore. I  got  into  them  and  touched  the 
electric  button  located  in  the  wall  con- 
veniently close.  When  the  maid  responded 
I  asked  her  to  make  me  a  cocktail.  She 
makes  a  very  fair  cocktail  for  an  emergen- 
cy, having  had  a  number  of  emergency  ex- 
periences since  she  has  been  with  me. 

But  somehow  the  cocktail  did  not  taste 


178  Confessions  of  a  Fool. 


as  good  as  I  expected  it  would,  and  I  asked 
her  to  fetch  me  some  tea  and  toast 

I  lay  in  bed  and  slept  a  little  during  the 
day.  Toward  night  I  had  the  maid  tele- 
phone for  Doctor  Tom,  and  when  the  Doc- 
tor came  he  told  me  I  must  lie  where  I  was 
until  he  gave  me  permission  to  get  up. 

I  don't  know  how  long  I  lay  there.  It 
seemed  months.  Kate  came  over  immedi- 
ately on  hearing  that  I  was  sick  and  in- 
sisted on  employing  a  nurse.  I  begged  her 
not  to  do  it,  but  that  night  I  asked  the  Doc- 
tor to  get  word  to  Helen — not  to  send  for 
her,  nor  tell  her  directly,  but  arrange  some 
device  to  have  her  learn  that  I  was  sick. 
I  don't  know  how  he  went  about  it,  but  one 
evening  Helen  came  in.  She  came  alone 
and  she  said  very  little.  She  stayed  until 
eleven  o'clock,  sat  by  my  bedside  and 


Nif/Jtt  and  Day.  179 


helped  me  to  the  Doctor's  medicine. 
I  think  she  came  every  evening  for  the 
many  weeks.  I  can't  recall  much  from 
those  weeks  except  that  I  tli ought  I  knew 
when  she  was  by  my  bedside.  I  slept  much 
of  the  time,  perhaps.  The  housemaid 
proved  to  be  a  very  good  nurse,  and  Kate 
was  with  me  during  the  afternoons — near- 
ly every  afternoon,  I  think.  So  we  got 
along  very  nicely. 

One  evening  I  opened  my  eyes  with  a 
feeling  as  if  I  had  just  waked  from  a  long 
nap— a  sleep  full  of  horrible  dreams  that  I 
could  not  picture  to  myself,  but  was  con- 
fident that  they  had  been  horrible.  I 
turned  my  head  on  the  pillow,  and  then  a 
figure  advanced  swiftly  and  noiselessly 
from  across  the  room.  It  was  Helen.  She 
bent  over  me  and  looked  into  mv  eves. 


180  Confessions  of  a  Fool. 

"Why  don't  you  speak,  Helen?"  I  said, 
looking  at  her  with  a  strange  feeling  of 
curiosity  as  to  what  her  presence  meant, 
and  why  she  was  sober  and  silent. 

Helen  started  as  if  my  voice  startled  her. 
Indeed,  I  thought  she  was  a  bit  frightened. 

"Why  don't  you  speak,  Helen?"  I  re- 
peated. 

"Why,  Dick!"  she  cried  out,  and  then 
dropping  her  voice  almost  to  a  whisper, 
"You  are  better,  aren't  you,  Dick?  The 
Doctor  said  last  evening  you  were  going  to 
be  better — or — or — 

"Or  die,  Helen?  I  suppose  I  have  been 
mighty  sick,  haven't  I,  Helen?"  It  seemed 
strange,  the  sound  of  my  own  voice. 

"Very  sick,  Dick.  And  you  are  very 
weak,  now.  I  don't  think  you  ought  to 
talk  about  it." 


Night  and  Day.  181 

"But,  Helen,"  I  persisted,  with  a  sort  of 
gladness  that  I  was  talking,  "have  you 
been  with  me  all  the  time,  Helen?" 

''Every  evening,  Dick." 

And  all  the  night,  for  a  good  many 
nights,  as  I  afterward  learned. 

"And  who  else  has  been  here?" 

"Not  many  people.  The  Doctor  wouldn't 
let  any  one  see  you  but  Jennie,  the  maid, 
and  your  sister." 

"My  sister — Kate?  And — and — have 
you  seen  Kate?" 

"Of  course — what  a  sweet  woman  she  is. 
She  was  very  good  to  me." 

"Good  to  you,  Helen!  She  couldn't  be 
otherwise,  you  dear  little  woman.  And 
the  boys — have  any  of  the  fellows  asked 
after  me?" 

"Lots  of  them,  Dick — and  have  sent  yon 


182  Confessions  of  a  Fool. 

things — things  to  eat  and  funny  bottles  of 
wine  and  things  to  drink,"  and  Helen 
laughed  a  soft  little  laugh. 

"And  I  couldn't  eat  the  things  they  sent 
to  eat  nor  drink  the  stuff  in  the  funny  bot- 
tles, I  suppose,  Helen?"  and  I  laughed,  too, 
weakly  enough. 

"Of  course  not.  But  it  was  very  nice  of 
them,  though,  I'm  sure.  And  Mrs.  Mar- 
berry  has  brought  you  flowers — the  flowers 
are  beginning  to  grow  out  of  doors,  now, 
you  know,  Dick." 

I  looked  over  at  the  hearth.  No  fire  was 
blazing  there,  but  the  room  was  warm  and 
I  noticed  a  window  open. 

I  turned  over  on  my  side — it  was  a 
mighty  effort,  and  Helen  sat  down  in  a 
chair  that  stood  at  the  head  of  the  bed.  I 
drew  one  arm  from  under  the  bedclothes 


Night  and  Day.  133 

and  reached  out  my  hand  toward  her.  The 
hand  was  awfully  thin  and  white. 

Helen  met  it  with  a  wrarm  little  grasp 
that  seemed  to  make  the  blood  rush  into 
the  chilly  fingers. 

"Helen,"  I  said,  feeling  very  weak  and 
my  voice  almost  failing  me,  "if  I  ever 
get  well  and  strong,  I  shall  want  to  tell  you 
that  I  love  you.  Will  you  let  me,  then?" 

"Of  course,  Dick."  Her  voice  was  very 
low  and  gentle. 

"Mayn't  I  tell  you  it  now,  Helen?" 

"If  you  wish  to,  Dick,"  and  her  eyes 
filled  with  tears  as  she  looked  into  mine. 

"I  do  want  to,  Helen,"  I  said,  "because  I 
love  you.  You  have  been  awfully  good  to 
me,  little  woman.  I  love  you." 

Helen  bent  over  and  kissed  me. 

"And  I  love  you,  Dick,"  she  said. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

THE    LAST    CONFESSION. 

I  am  sitting  in  a  great  big  roomy  cham- 
ber in  the  Doctor's  house,  up-country.  De- 
spite my  horror  of  the  country,  I  have  had 
a  remarkably  pleasant  visit  and  shall  go 
back  to  town,  to-morrow,  with  a  new  health 
and  strength — a  new  kind,  I  hope. 

Through  the  open  window  I  see  the  grea., 
hills,  a  long  range,  green  clad,  over  the  edge 
of  which  the  new  moon  is  just  disappear- 
ing. The  sky  is  full  of  twinkling  stars. 

The  old  maples  about  the  house  are 
soughing  in  the  gentle  breeze.  There  is 
the  musical  sound  of  rushing  water  and 

184 


The  Last  Confession.  185 

the  unbroken  rustle  of  a  little  waterfall 
from  the  back  of  the  house;  and  in  its  pools 
the  trout  are  sleeping. 

There  is  no  other  sound,  none  but  the 
soughing  boughs  and  the  rushing  stream 
and  the  water  falling,  falling.  It  is  appall- 
ingly still.  The  chamber  is  filled  with  the 
fragrance  of  honeysuckles  about  the  porch. 

I  rise  from  the  window  and  light  a  can- 
dle that  stands  on  the  old-fashioned  bu- 
reau. Helen's  picture  is  there,  in  its  frame. 
And  in  the  top  drawer  is  another  picture— 
the  portrait  of  a  sweet,  sad  face.  I  take  it 
out  and,  holding  it  by  the  candle's  light, 
look  at  it. 

I  know  you  would  be  fond  of  Helen, 
sweet,  sad  girl.  Sometimes  T  think  Helen 
is  like  you — only  Helen  is  not  sad — and  she 
shall  never  be! 


186  Confessions  of  a  Fool. 


You  are  dead,  sweet  girl. 

The  Doctor  told  me  that  you  wore  your 
life  out. 

I  knowr  what  he  meant. 

He  meant  that  I  wore  your  life  out. 

I  know  that  you  died  of  neglect,  poor  love 
—my  girl-wife. 


THE  END. 


University  of  California 

SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 

405  Hilgard  Avenue,  Los  Angeles,  CA  90024-1388 

Return  this  material  to  the  library 

from  which  it  was  borrowed. 


REC'DC.LFEBOl'OG 


3  1158  00745  3706 


UC  SOUTHERN  REG^LUBRWYFACIL.rw 


A    000  085  498     4 


